


Estate Matters

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathtub Sex, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Coitus Interruptus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Jargon, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Voyeurism, War, hayloft porn, implied/ referenced dub-con, ptsd!john, virgin!Sherlock (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1326325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has come home from Afghanistan and found a job as a gardener for the wealthy Trevor family at their Scotland estate.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is there undercover as a stable hand to investigate the family and find a jewel thief.</p><p>Perhaps the lone consulting detective could use some assistance? Especially when his old lover is the eldest son of the family in question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [froofie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/froofie/gifts).



> The manor house in this story is LOOSELY based on this property in Scotland:
> 
> http://www.culzeanexperience.org/

The Trevors' manor house in Scotland was legendary. It sat on 600 acres and abutted the sea. As a result, it required year-round maintenance. Fortunately, the Trevors could afford it. It was as almost as hot as an Afghan summer when he was asked by the family to clear one of the back fields. They wanted to plant something that they hadn’t decided upon yet and John Watson cursed the weeds, the brambles, the small saplings that Mother Nature had decided to plant in this tiny corner of her universe as he trundled along on the tractor he felt fortunate to be using in the first place, considering the tendency for the family to be overly frugal with hard labor whenever they could. The rotor on the back was ripping up the smaller brush just fine, but the when he came across the saplings, he was forced to turn off the tractor, get down, and attack the small tree with machete and spade until it was gone, root and all. It was exhausting work and his shoulder was complaining loudly by the time noon rolled around.

He paused to look over his work as he drank deeply from the water jug he had brought along. He could feel the dust and grime all over his skin and the trickles of sweat rolling down his brow and neck. He wiped at them and recalled the high sun above Kushk-i-Nakhud, light breezes coming across the desert, the flap of the tent canvas. It was twenty degrees cooler inside the tents, but the air was stifling inside. They were sat there for a week after defeating the levies and winning their big guns as a prize. The brigadier-general was waiting to see what move Ayub Khan would make next and there were no signs of life from the direction of Kandahar. So that meant that for a week there were twenty-four hundred British and Indian soldiers in the middle of the desert all bored to tears. It was a recipe for disaster.

On July 26th the disaster became real.

He could still hear the gunshots and the men crying out for a medic. He remembered his labored breathing and the hot air that rushed in his lungs with every breath. He remembered his hands: sweaty, filthy, bloody, but still steady. He was grateful for that. He can’t remember how many times he’d said: “Just hang in there, soldier.” The sand was inescapable: it was in his eyes, his nose and mouth, in the wounds he was patching up. The count of the dead and dying was multiplying rapidly. But it was the sight of all those enemy soldiers that chilled his blood. They were everywhere. And they just kept coming and coming and coming.

The order to fall back came twice, only they were falling back in the opposite direction from whence they had come. In John’s book, that wasn’t a retreat: it was running for your life.

He wiped his brow again and looked around. He ran so far and so fast for his life that he ran clean into Scotland and became a gardener. A fucking gardener. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t see blood again. He could diagnose, but he couldn’t bring himself to treat. Not yet. He needed this time in the country, fighting against Mother Nature instead of fighting disease, wiping dirt off his hands instead of blood. He took a deep breath through his nose and enjoyed the smell of earth and wood instead of sand and cordite. This was peace. He felt his mind quiet.

“Whoa! Stamford!” cried a voice. It was followed by the whinny of a horse and galloping hoof beats.

John turned toward the sound and looked about. He saw nothing but the dirt road that lead up to the walled patch he had been working. There were ten acres to clear and John had smashed through only a miniscule amount, but he had begun where the main gate had lead off of the road. The gate was open to allow the tractor to pass through and as he watched that corner of the field, a beautiful brown and white stallion came over the stone wall from out of the tree line, landing blindly in the dirt where only four hours before there had been nothing but waist-high brambles, saplings, and weeds. It landed in the upturned soil softly and turned, bucking at the man on his back.

Clearly the man was struggling to keep his seat as the horse tossed and kicked and bucked and reared. John set down his water and made for the two. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do once he got there, but then, he was a soldier and a doctor and he must do something, mustn’t he? The horse had caught sight of him as he ran up waving his arms about and shouting, “Whoa! Whoa!”

“Keep clear!” the man shouted as he pulled at the reigns trying to regain control. “Keep clear or he’ll kick you!”

“He’s too busy trying to shake you,” said John. And then an idea struck him: “When he rears up next, let go.”

“What?” asked the man. He seemed to be more offended than confused by the order.

“Trust me, god damn you!” said John. He was stunned that he still had his military command voice. John guessed that the grunt the man had let out in response was meant as an assent, so when the beast came up on his hind legs once more, John leapt in quickly, grabbed the man by his trouser waist at the small of his back and heaved with all his might backward. John landed in the dirt with the stranger planted between his legs. The man rolled backward into John’s chest and reflexively John held him to him, wrapping both arms about him as a child would hug a teddy.

The horse seemed triumphant in his success and gave both men a derisive snort as he trotted away through the gate and down the road back toward the main house.

“It- It was a bloody squirrel,” said the man as he caught his breath.

“Just relax,” said John. “You’ve not broken anything I trust. You don’t seem to be hurt.”

“A squirrel!” repeated the man as though John hadn’t spoken. “It came out of the tree, jumped on the horse’s head as we were riding and the horse bolted into the wood,” said the man. “Utterly hateful and ridiculous animals.”

He broke from John’s protective embrace, stood, and brushed himself off. John sat in the dirt, mouth agape as he had his first proper look at his rescuee. Tall and lanky, angular and yet curvy, his jeans fit him perfectly and his button down shirt was hugging all the right places. The physical beauty was made exotic by a peculiar face with curious cutting eyes and a stern look surrounded by a halo of dark curls. His visage rendered John breathless. “Need a hand?” he asked John. A gigantic paw was offered. John took it. It was warm and firm, but gentle.

“Cheers,” John managed as the man’s blue eyes held him captive. He brushed himself off because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” asked the stranger.

“Sorry?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. But how…?”

The stranger waved an annoyed hand in front of his face. “It’s a thing I do. Observation, deduction. A hobby really. At least, that’s what my brother calls it, but he uses it every day himself – as a matter of fact, he’s the one who taught me how – although if you tell him that I will have to kill you.”

“But that doesn’t explain how-“ began John, but he was cut off again with another wave of the man’s hand. “Who are you?” he asked.

There was a pause as the man took in the measure of John. “The name’s Victor Trevor,” he said finally.

“Trevor? As in?” asked John as he pointed in the general direction of the main house.

“Yes, yes,” said Victor, irritated. “But you mustn’t think too much of it. I’m only here for my sister’s impending nuptials and then it’s back to London for me. And you’re the new gardener. A former soldier turned gardener. I suppose that’s poetic. Seen many battles, have you?”

“Yes,” said John.

“And you’re a medical man as well,” said Victor.

“How-? Well… I was,” said John.

“It’s been my experience that all medical men are always medical men, regardless of their actual day to day activities,” stated Victor. “And you were in medicine in the army. Patching up soldiers on the front lines?”

“Yes. Far too many,” said John.

“I see,” said Victor with another evaluating stare. “Well, I’d best be getting back. Good to meet you… erm?”

“John Watson,” said John shaking the outstretched hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Trevor.”

“Oh please, doctor,” said Victor. “You saved me from almost certain injury and possible death. Call me Victor.” And with that, he turned away and walked down the dirt road back to the house.

“Right. Victor,” said John under his breath to the beautiful retreating figure. “Good to meet you. And you’re welcome, by the way.”

 

~080~

 

It’s too bad that Sherlock had an innate distrust of horses. And besides mucking out a stall or two, he wasn’t that much use around a stable. Other than those two shortcomings, his cover as a stable hand would have worked flawlessly. Sherlock’s opinion was that horses were too unpredictable, ill-tempered, and altogether too high-strung for his tastes. The little adventure with Stamford that afternoon solidified his mindset against the beasts. It also seemed like an additional twist of the knife when the horse came back from his ride without his rider; the stable master had a few heated words for him once he’d turned up. But Sherlock bore the brunt of the man’s tirade because he knew he had bigger fish to fry.

Lestrade had suspected someone in the Trevor family in a series of cat burglaries in London but he couldn’t prove it. Sherlock was all too eager to investigate and not for the reasons that he usually did: the eldest son, Victor Trevor, was an old classmate and friend. Well… perhaps the word “friend” was a bit much, but they had attended university together and they had had a no-strings-attached sexual relationship during that time, so what does one call that exactly?

Sherlock shrugged to himself as he oiled his third saddle of the day. He hated the menial tasks that the stable master Mr. Long had set him to do, but it served as penance for almost injuring the Trevor’s stallion. And if Sherlock were honest, the rhythmic task helped him think.

It had been a week since the last robbery and Lestrade was happy to receive Sherlock’s texts regarding the arrivals and departures from the front door of the great house, which was practically a fortified citadel in appearance. The building itself was a large long structure topped with the typical merlons and crenels one would see in a stereotypical castle. The window of his loft room provided a view of the long drive in from the front gate that lead to the circular drive around the fountain. A small copse of trees blocked his view of the half of the circle that was nearest to him in front of the house, but other than that, he had a perfect view of the whole northern side of the building. The western side of the house was directly abutting the open sea and the edge of the house was one with the sheer cliff beneath it. That left the southern side which was the servant’s side of the house and the eastern side which was the most advantageous for keeping track of the interior goings on as there were banks and banks of windows to look through. Unfortunately his room’s vantage point caused him to be blind to the eastern side of the building. But then, it was just a matter of taking a walk in the evenings to rectify that problem.

On his evening strolls, he gave thanks for the sea breeze and the humid weather; he also gave thanks for the age of the manor house which had never been fitted with any type of air conditioning and was therefore required to leave windows open from which Sherlock could hear many a late-night conversation. He had observed the three ladies of the house (mother and two daughters) discussing the wedding plans for the eldest daughter; he had heard the maids out back of the kitchens talking about the bride’s new groom and the alleged dalliance he had with a girl from the village; he had heard the father’s telephone conversations with his broker and his mistress; and he had seen the head butler sneaking a bit of sherry every evening in the privacy of his master’s dressing room. It was all very boring.

And then Victor came home. According to servant scuttlebutt, he had been away in Hong Kong negotiating a property deal with the Chinese. That sounded like Victor. When they had met in school, Victor was already well-traveled where Sherlock had only seen the world through television and movies. Sherlock had a keen mind, but a schoolboy with moderately wealthy parents does not get opportunities to just pick up and run off to Japan or the Maldives during every break. And Victor always had an air of the dangerous about him. It had made Sherlock’s heart beat faster at the thought of him.

As he watched yet another squabble between the kitchen maids that evening, he wondered about John Watson; he was an unknown variable. Sherlock hoped that he wasn’t going to be a problem. If Watson’s work brought him close to the house it might become sticky, but Sherlock was satisfied that the former soldier was going to be busy enough on the back ten of the property for the remainder of the time that he needed to pose as the stable boy for the Trevors that it shouldn’t be terrible. Watson didn’t seem particularly dangerous. But he had been to Afghanistan and by his own admission seen death and destruction. That’s bound to do something to a man. It also didn’t help that through a sudden compulsion he had introduced himself to him as Victor Trevor. It was an added complication, but it assured that if the soldier was curious, he wouldn’t be too curious to see him throughout the property and at all hours. Not that Sherlock would have minded John Watson asking him questions. He remembered the deep blue eyes and the fascinated look on his face. No, he didn’t mind at all. Sherlock shrugged it off and took another drag of his cigarette.

He stood with his back to the reflective pond that sat in front of the house and looked up to the second floor. He put out his cigarette when he saw Victor staring out of the window above him. It was a knee-jerk reaction; Victor couldn’t see him: the night was moonless and the property wasn’t well lit where he was. Once the moment of panic passed, Sherlock stared at Victor Trevor.

He hadn’t seen him since their years at Uni. His shoulders had broadened and he had grown a moustache that complimented his face. He still had the same dark eyes and Sherlock imagined that they still shone whenever he laughed, only now they would be framed by wrinkles at the corners which would have only made him look even more charming. Suddenly the figure turned and Sherlock picked up on the voices: Victor’s and his mother’s.

Victor was having an argument about his sister’s wedding plans. He didn’t like the groom, his family, or the need to wear the mourning coat and top hat. Sherlock sympathized with that last bit. He couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about when it came to weddings either – or why they were even necessary. It was all just a lot of dumb show and the reception was only for the guests; if the married couple didn’t show up at all everything could still go on as planned and no one would be the wiser. If people would only realize that the only difference between the couple’s life before the wedding and the couple’s life afterward were signatures on a legal document, the entire wedding planning industry would go under. Sherlock agreed with Victor: stupid traditions were stupid.

When the house went to bed, he returned to his cramped loft room above the stables. It was well-insulated against the chill of the evening but it was some time before sleep finally took him. He lay awake listening to the crashing waves along the castle walls and ran over the evidence in his mind, but he still saw Victor’s face before him. He recalled their first passionate kiss and rendezvous in the changing rooms after Victor’s rugby game. He had been too shocked to argue at the time, but strong arms were around him and he had given in. He even remembered the smell of the man too: clove cigarettes, shampoo, and aftershave. He cursed his mind for bringing back those images. His attempts to delete them were to no avail.

No sooner had he shaken those images away, his thoughts kept turning back to the feel of strong arms about his chest – only this time they belonged to a man with sea-blue eyes and sandy blond hair that shone in the sun.

_John Watson. Who are you?_

Sherlock thought about kissing that upturned face. He considered how his stubble would feel, what he would taste like. But why? He had never felt that way since Victor and indeed: seeing Victor again… he thought he had deleted him. But for Sherlock to fantasize about a stranger when there was the game to consider? It was foolish and irresponsible.

_And yet…_

As soon as he closed his eyes he felt the soft breeze from the ocean across his face from his solitary window near the bed; the image of John Watson came swimming into his vision unbidden. He was still the same man he had seen in the field: filthy, wild-eyed, his cotton shirt clung to him in all the right places, showing off his compact, well-muscled body. Heat spread to Sherlock’s belly as he recalled the curve of his upturned face holding a look of smiling fascination as he unraveled the facts of his own life to him. Most people would be mystified and then insulted. This John Watson gazed upon him as though he had performed a conjuring trick – no – a miracle.

Sherlock could have kissed him. He could have kissed him for saving his life; or at the very least, saving him from the effects of a horse throwing him. He could have easily reached down and kissed him despite the sweat and grime, despite everything. He could have taken his face in his hands and placed a single, solitary sweet kiss to that face… and he felt his cock twitch as it filled.

Suddenly it was John pushing him up against the wall of the changing rooms after rugby. It was John rucking his shirt up only to scrape his nails down the flesh of his back. It was John’s hot press against his hardness as he licked cruelly into his mouth.

Sherlock was hard. He palmed against his erection and his breathing came in pants. “John,” he whispered to the walls. It was John’s warm cock shoved down his throat. “Fuck.” It was John’s hardness against his arse as he pushed him down on the benches. It was John’s fingers pressing deep inside him. It was John’s cock burying itself after. The burn was John’s. The pain was John’s. The craving need. The panicky breath. The searing white hot orgasm… all of it was John’s.

Sherlock had cum in his pants without so much as a fondling caress.

But it was wrong. That had been Victor. It had been Victor who had taken him that way: rough, aggressive. It had been Victor who whispered that he was the only one who could do that to him. That it was Sherlock’s fault for being so incredibly fuckable. They spent their last semester at Uni fucking that way: Sherlock on his stomach, Victor always pushing in. Sherlock supposed it was sexy; Victor said it was sexy. Victor said he couldn’t get enough of Sherlock. But then, Victor said a lot of things. And then Uni was over and that was that.

Sherlock hadn’t bothered with anyone else and no one wanted him anyway. Everyone he came into contact with found him too cold and callous. This suited Sherlock down to the ground. It was better this way because for as many times as a tidal wave of loneliness threatened to drown him in his solitude, he was better off suffering from bouts of that sensation than from the absolute torment of grief and emptiness left behind by one Victor Trevor. After Uni it was all about drugs to fill that void. And then it was about the game.

Now the game was all that mattered. And as Sherlock wiped himself clean with a dirty shirt tail and curled beneath the covers, his body loose, his tenuous thoughts coalesced in the twilight of sleep to attempt to put together the facts of the family… but then moved into a dream about the beautiful gardener, a sunlight-filled day, and that one sweet kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

The family was kind enough to give him a small semi-detached cottage on the estate grounds next door to the game keeper of the estate, Mr. Wilson. John appreciated the privacy and craved the quiet – at first. But soon enough he was climbing the walls. Being alone was fine; being lonely was something different altogether. So it was with a grateful heart that, after a week of solitude, he accepted Mrs. Wilson’s invitation to evening supper with her and her husband.

“So my missus says ye were a soldier?” Mr. Wilson asked, tearing off a piece of bread from the loaf and using it to sop up the broth from his meat and veg stew. He was a solidly-built but stout Scotsman with a full red beard and a shock of ginger hair, but both were going grey fast.

“Now don’t trouble him with all that, Jabez,” scolded Mrs. Wilson. “Let the poor boy eat something. He’s been hard at work this whole week.” She was plump but careworn and fierce as the highlands that had bred her.

“Aye,” agreed Mr. Wilson, “and he’s had no one to talk to but the wind and the bracken and the dirt for a week. I expect he’ll value the conversation. Don’t ye, lad?”

John smiled shyly and nodded. “Won’t turn it down.”

“Right then,” said Mr. Wilson giving his wife an “I-told-you-so” stare, “So let’s have it then: ye were a soldier?”

“I was, yes,” said John quietly. He moved the meat about in his plate. He dreaded these conversations a bit, if he were honest. Any time anyone had brought up the war they always wanted to know if he’d killed anyone or seen anyone killed. It was only Victor Trevor who had managed to suss out that he was also a medical man. He had been wondering about that all week long and his brain turned again to it now before he was interrupted by Wilson’s boisterous talk.

“I was in Germany as a young man,” said Mr. Wilson. “After the krauts had been routed, that is. Best sausages I’ve ever had. Those Germans couldn’t pick a leader to save their lives, but they could sure do wonders with pigs.” He ate his meal with fervor, mingling conversation between mouthfuls. “I expect ye were in the Middle East, eh?”

“Yes,” said John. Here it came.

“What branch?”

“Army.”

“Ah. I was Marines meself,” he said. Another spoonful later he asked: “What regiment?”

“Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“The famous one?”

“Right.”

Another mouthful or two later, Wilson asked: “So I suppose ye felt a keen sting after Maiwand, eh?”

“You could say that.”

Wilson gave him a long evaluating stare. He set his spoon down gently. John met his gaze with the greatest trepidation. “Ye were there.” That’s all he said. John merely nodded.

Another pause.

A gentle yet firm hand reached over and touched him on the arm. “Welcome home, son,” said Mr. Wilson quietly. “Proud to know ye.”

“Thank you, sir,” said John. Some kind of silent understanding passed between the two men.

“Erm,” interrupted Mrs. Wilson, “John, would you like more stew?”

“A bit more would be lovely,” said John. She smiled and spooned some more into his bowl.

“That’s good meat in that,” she said, “And fresh veg too. I try to get him to eat better, but he’s too much of a meat-and-tatties type.”

“Oh woman,” grumbled Mr. Wilson.

“Hust you!” said Mrs. Wilson. “Honestly, he’s been having so much trouble with his feet lately. I though the vitamins would help as he refuses to see a doctor about it.”

“I’m a doctor, actually,” offered John.

“Are ye?” asked Mrs. Wilson. She looked impressed and said to her husband: “Well what do you know? Jabez Wilson, God above has outsmarted ye. Now ye’ve got no choice.” She turned to John earnestly: “Will ye take a look at him after supper?”

“Don’t ye dare force this man to do anything he hasn’t a mind to!” said Mr. Wilson.

Mrs. Wilson turned on her husband and spoke very slowly: “You will let this man take a look at that foot of yours or so help me, I’ll tie you down to the chair w’yer belt meself!”

John smiled at the squabbling, but he didn’t want it to turn physical. “Listen,” he said holding up his hands, “I’ll take a look at your foot. If it’s nothing serious, I’ll leave it. If it’s something serious, you’ll do as I tell you, right?”

Jabez Wilson knew when he was outnumbered. “Aye, alright… doctor.”

After dinner, John was left alone in the sitting room while Mr. and Mrs. Wilson cleared up the plates and washed them. Mrs. Wilson spoke in hushed tones so that their guest wouldn’t hear: “What’s that My Wand you mentioned?”

“Maiwand,” he corrected her. “It’s a battle that was fought out in Afghanistan. If he was at Maiwand, he’s one of very few to have been there and lived to tell about it.”

“That bad?”

“Devastating.”

“Good God.”

They rejoined him to find him glancing at their various pictures that were collected against one wall and behind the glass doors of an ancient curio cabinet. “Forty years leaves a lot of memories,” said Mrs. Wilson. John nodded and smiled.

“You don’t mind that I’m looking, then?” he asked.

“Gracious, no,” said Mrs. Wilson. She pointed out a picture of the old Mr. and Mrs. Trevor, the current Mr. Trevor’s parents. Their children were around them in that photo: Aloysius (the current Mr. Trevor), St. John (dead now, bless him), and Harriet (an estranged sister thought to have gone to America) each one more somber than the last. Yet each child had their own character. John noted that Mr. Trevor was dark-haired and as barrel-chested as his father; St. John was a tow-headed boy like his mother; and Harriet’s eyes were light and particularly beautiful.

Mr. Wilson turned John toward the current Mr. and Mrs. Trevor’s wedding photo. “And Victor was at the wedding as well, but no one knew then. We all had to do the maths later,” he chuckled as Mrs. Wilson batted him away.

“And here is the last family photo we have of the whole family,” she said as she pointed at one picture in particular. She indicated each person with her finger as she named them: “Aloysius and Margaret, and the children Gwendolyn, Fiona, and Victor. I suppose now that there’s this wedding there’ll be another family portrait done. Won’t that be nice?”

John stared at Victor Trevor. He tried to justify the picture with the man he had met the other day. Victor’s eyes were dark like his parent’s eyes. But that couldn’t be. The build was all wrong too; he was much too broad-shouldered. Clearly the man he had met was not the real Victor Trevor. He felt himself getting angry at the betrayal. If he ever saw that man again – whoever he was – he would blacken his eye.

“Are you alright, Mr. Watson?” asked Mr. Wilson.

“Doctor, dear. Remember, he’s a doctor,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“Yes,” said John a bit distractedly. “Yes, I’m fine. And speaking of being a doctor…” he turned to Mr. Wilson. “Let’s have a look at that foot, shall we?”

After tolerating one more blustering objection from Mr. Wilson, John determined that it was a mild case of gout. He prescribed an appropriate treatment and urged him to see his GP as soon as possible. “There are medications on the market for the treatment of gout, but the most important thing is to drink lots of fluids – especially water, cranberry juice, or even celery juice. A fresh fruit every once in a while wouldn’t go amiss either.”

“Bah!” said Mr. Wilson, “Rabbit food. Can’t stand rabbit food.”

“Well,” replied John, “technically rabbits don’t eat much fruit, so I think you’re safe there.” He spent another hour in the company of the Wilsons before he made for his own bed. Mrs. Wilson gave him some left over stew for lunch tomorrow and John was reminded of his mother when she reflexively smoothed the collar on his shirt for him. She caught herself and pulled back her hand, embarrassed. John smiled, took her hand and kissed it, thanked them both, and went home.

He would deal with that lying wretch tomorrow. As he lay his head to his pillow, he wondered exactly who the man was and what he was doing on the Trevors’ property. He determined to find out as soon as possible.

 

~080~

 

The 600 acres owned by the Trevor family contained many out-buildings. One of these was the small semi-detached row-house style cottages that sheltered the groundskeepers and their families; another was the stable with its upper floors dedicated to the housing of its staff; and there was also a small stone chapel that had seen the wedding of every Trevor for the past three centuries. The week before the wedding saw the hustle and bustle of hired workers scrubbing the place from flagstone floor to oaken-vaulted rafters. Each window was painstakingly cleaned and, in one case, removed, professionally restored, and placed back, proudly shining in its original grandeur. The chapel was on the north path between the back ten acres that John was clearing and the stables.

Sherlock walked Hannah along the path for her daily exercise. He suspected that this was still part of the penance he was paying as Hannah was usually trained in the longe area but had been suffering from a touch of tendonitis and had to take a break from the stress of the longeing ring. This walk was the only formal exercise the vet had approved her for and it was all so very dull. Sherlock watched as they carried in the red carpet to spread in the narthex and down the aisle. Again, he was revisited with the same sentiments that Victor Trevor has professed a week previous: weddings were useless nonsense.

“You!” shouted a voice.

Sherlock turned to see John Watson pointing at him and marching in his direction. He had been working in the field: his clothes were soiled and his hands were filthy, but he looked strong and Sherlock felt a thrill go through him at the thought of those filthy hands all over him.

“You lying bastard,” said John. “You’re no more Victor Trevor than I’m Father Christmas.”

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance of surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen a picture of Victor Trevor just last night,” said John, “and you are not him.” His breath came in heaves and he noticeably flexed his left hand in a tight fist.

“Are you going to strike me?” asked Sherlock.

“I want to,” said John. He looked about at the few startled faces of the workers at the chapel. They reluctantly went back to work as John added: “But I won’t. You’re hardly worth it, whoever you are.”

“Whomever,” corrected Sherlock.

John blinked at him. “You really do want me to bash your head in, don’t you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Sherlock. “No one actually wants a thing like that.”

“And yet…” said John. He glared at the man before him. “Do you mind telling me who you really are? Or do I just shout bloody murder until one of the Trevors turns up and you can explain your presence to them?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Sherlock with a sigh. “Walk with me. We’re gathering an audience.”

John glanced over at the workers and a few of them scattered back to their tasks. Some, more bold than the others, leaned back on the stacks of chairs and boxes of flower garland and watched the two with arms crossed. John grimaced at them, turned, and walked on the other side of Hannah as Sherlock led her toward the back ten acres.

“So was it Kandahar for you then?” asked Sherlock as they walked along the sunny path, shaded by the branches of elms, firs, and pine.

“I’m sorry?”

“Kandahar: a famous military location in Afghanistan. You said you had served in Afghanistan. So… were you at Kandahar?”

“How did you…?” asked John, but then his voice got very small. “Kandahar. Yes.”

“Not the Maiwand trouble?” asked Sherlock. He never looked at John. He seemed to be keeping Hannah’s head between them on purpose.

“Unfortunately,” said John. “Wait a minute. I thought I was the one asking the questions.”

Sherlock couldn’t repress a small grin. “Go on then, detective. Detect.”

John paused. “What is your real name?”

“Stupid question,” said Sherlock.

“Why?”

“Because if I tell you then you’ll know not only who I am, but also my purpose here.”

“Well I think I can suss out your purpose,” said John. “You work in the stables. That doesn’t take a genius.”

“No,” said Sherlock, “that doesn’t even take the intelligence of a child of three. Try harder, man. Ask better questions.”

John moved ahead and stood in Sherlock’s path. Arrested by this, Sherlock stopped both he and Hannah and stared at the ex-soldier.

“When we first met, you knew I was a soldier and a doctor,” said John. “How? Explain yourself.”

“You have a military bearing,” said Sherlock, “and a deeper tan than is available even in the dead of summer in Scotland – one that your skin has worn for some time. You work in the field and while your boots are worn, they are well-kept. No farmer or true gardener would bother to polish their work boots and yet, the tops of yours shine above where your trousers cover them.” Sherlock pointed at one trouser hem that had caught the top of John’s boot, exposing the well-polished leather beneath. “That’s either fastidiousness or military training. I choose the latter because your shirt is missing a button and all the grime involved with sweating and straining all day in the dirt would make a fastidious man insane inside of three hours.”

“Right,” said John, stunned. “And the medical training?”

“Your hands,” said Sherlock. “Not a single callus on them. And you expressed great concern for my health after the first time we met. You have the demeanor of one in the medical profession. Short of that, it was merely a strong suspicion that you were a medical man - until you admitted as much, of course.”

“Of course,” said John. “And now I have to figure you out in the same way? Is that the game we’re playing?”

“Oh, it’s far from a game, Doctor Watson,” said Sherlock.

“Right then,” said John. He crossed his arms and took a long look at him. “Your hands don’t have calluses either, but you’re no medical man. You’re too… mechanical in nature. I’ve known plenty of doctors with shite bedside manner, but you seem to have been born without a soul at all. So medicine’s out. But science is not. As a matter of fact, your left wrist has a chemical burn on it.” They both regarded Sherlock’s wrist for a moment. Then John peered at Sherlock’s face. “And you’re far too pale for regular outdoor activity.” Sherlock brought his head back to his full height, seemingly affronted. “Your boots are fit for mucking out stables, but the belt – I’d go so far as to say that it was more for fashion than sturdiness, which makes me believe that you’re no stable boy.” He looked up at Sherlock’s face. “And when you said you were Victor Trevor, you also said you had a brother. Victor doesn’t have any brothers. So not only are you an impostor, you’re a bad impostor. How am I doing?”

“Exceptionally well,” said Sherlock, “for a beginner.”

“And so the truth is?” said John. Hannah snorted. She was getting impatient. John stepped aside and let Sherlock walk her along, instead keeping to Sherlock’s side of her as they went.

“The truth is a secret,” said Sherlock. “I cannot tell you who I am or why I am here. Only know that it is a police matter that brings me here and that I mean no harm to anyone – least of all the Trevors. Provided that they all prove innocent.”

“You’re a policeman?” asked John.

Sherlock gave him a look. “Don’t be stupid. The belt I’m wearing costs more than any policeman could reasonably afford on their salary.”

“So you’re working with the police?” asked John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “More precisely: I am a consultant. But that is the most I can tell you.” He turned to face John, his eyes shockingly blue. “You must believe me. You must keep me a secret. The work I’m doing is vital.”

John swallowed hard and his heart beat faster. “Sure,” he said. After a few more walking paces, John asked: “Do you need any help?”

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Hungry for a bit of action, are we?”

“Clearing a field is calming,” said John. “And you can certainly get your frustrations out with a machete in your hands. But at the end of the day, it’s arse-end down on a tractor for ten hours, eat, sleep, repeat….”

“Well that isn’t exactly Kandahar, is it?”

“Not really, no. I suppose that’s why I wanted the job.”

“But now you want back in the war? A different war?”

“Is what you do like going to war?”

“The majority of criminal minds are made up of mostly greed and avarice mixed with very little intelligence. But every once in a while, you run into something… intriguing. And those are usually the most dangerous. They can even be deadly.”

“That sounds like war to me. Only the stupidity, greed, and avarice are usually coming from Whitehall.”

Sherlock grinned. “Seen your fair share of violence, have you?”

“Yes,” said John.

“And you’re not averse to more should it crop up?”

John paused and glanced at his companion. “No,” said John.

Sherlock turned to him and held out his hand. “Then the name’s Sherlock Holmes. Welcome back to the war, Doctor Watson.”

 

~080~

 

John felt strange as he parted company with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes. His head was spinning with the thought of something nefarious going on within the Trevor household. His pace quickened at the thought of the adventure of it all and so did his heartbeat. But the piercing blue eyes of the police consultant wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would it? Once again, Sherlock Holmes had him shaking his head.

When he looked up, he noticed something he hadn’t before. Already Mr. Holmes had his instincts to the fore. There was a path leading away into the woods just off the main back road. A broken branch off of one of the low shrubs had attracted his attention. Curious, he moved off to investigate, looking around to see if there was anyone watching him as he ducked into the brush.

He noticed a footpath that was overgrown with weeds, ivy, and small branches, but was still discernible because of the wear on what tree roots were exposed to the elements. Lichen had taken over on them, but there were fresh scrapes, signs of recent use, along the way. He watched his steps carefully as he wove through the trees, thanking fate for giving him a job that required heavy work trousers as some of the low-lying fauna had nettles and thorns. Soon he came across a small stone temple. Its granite Doric columns were covered in lichen and ivy, disguising it from any prying eyes who may have been passing on the higher road. The doors had been a shiny copper but the weather had turned the patina to a dull green. The temple sat on a disused lake now overgrown with weeds.

He made his way around the structure and realized that this was the front entrance to a small boathouse. The back of the building changed from stone to wood and glass, the copper trim on the top of the roof as green as the door. There were shadows inside. Two people were speaking harshly to one another. John crept up slowly to hear their words and cringed when he stepped on a twig, the loud crack of the dry branch was like a gunshot.

“What was that?” said a voice.

John hopped behind a gigantic elm. He held his breath and he shut his eyes tightly. Distantly he could hear the beat of helicopter propellers and after a moment he realized that it was just his own heartbeat in his ears as another male voice said: “Would you please stop jumping at shadows and pay attention?”

The first voice, also a man’s, continued: “How can you not be wary of every little thing that goes on around here? I mean, do you have any idea what I’m doing for you? What I’m risking?”

“I never asked you to do any of this.”

“But it’s the only way we can be together and have your family be none the wiser. We talked about this.”

“We also said that we had to stop this.”

The silence between the two men was palpable. John took a chance to peek over through the glass walls. Mother Nature had also left her mark here and John could barely make out the two figures who seemed to be in close contact with one another inside. He took another chance and crept forward as silently as his work boots would allow. He reached the outer wall of the building and carefully wiped away the dirt from the lowest intact pane that would allow him a good view.

The inside of the building was vastly different from the exterior. The floor had been swept clean, a small bed had been set up in one corner with candles and plenty of blankets. It was ample space for a tryst – which is exactly what the area was intended for as the two figures in the center were locked in a tight embrace and were ardently kissing.

John knew that if they were sneaking off to have coitus in such a secluded spot, they weren’t meant to be together properly; there was something else going on. He couldn’t see one of them and waited so that he could identify both men. He wanted to see as much as he could so that he could tell Mr. Holmes all he knew. He shifted his weight in his eagerness and his foot slipped and his hand crashed through the glass.

Both men stared and John locked eyes with them both. And then he ran.

He didn’t head back the way he had come and he flew blindly down the path past the boathouse, hoping that it would come out back along the road where he could re-orient himself and find others who could help. Branches and brambles tore at his hands, face, and clothing as he ran along what small traces of the path he could find in the wood. He could hear someone hot on his heels and he wanted to turn and face them, but he needed a clearing to do that. He desperately needed air, freedom, space, breath and the trees and branches pressed in all about him cloying and impenetrable.

With a final push, he burst out into an opening beneath some birch trees and spun to face his pursuers. A man came leaping out seconds after he did and leapt for John’s throat. They both went to the ground with a loud thud. Leaves kicked up as the two men wrestled, rolling themselves over and over, each man attempting to get a proper hold on the other. Finally John sat atop the man, his hands around his neck and squeezing for all he was worth. It was then he realized that he was strangling Victor Trevor.

Something dull and heavy struck John from behind and the world went black.


	3. Chapter 3

“Fire! Fire in the stables!”

There was shouting and rumbling, a horse screamed and John’s body shook with a tremor that came through the ground. He tried to breathe, but the air was thick and it made him cough. His eyes stung. His feet were prickly with heat coming from somewhere. The floor shook again and the horse screamed. He smelled feces and urine and hay and smoke. He pried his eyes open and looked up into the stamping hooves of a great stallion that towered above him. Its feet came down inches from his head and John instinctively drew backward and clipped his head on the wall of the horse stall.

Fresh pain shot thorough his skull and he cried aloud, smacking a hand over the sore spot. His vision doubled temporarily making the smoke twice as thick and the horse twice as threatening. To his left, bales of hay were on fire and flames shot up to the roof of the stall. The only bit of the stall that wasn’t flammable was the wall that had the door in it. That whole wall was half wood, half wrought iron bars, allowing the horse air and a strolling passer-by visual access to the stall. The wood portion came to a man’s shoulder height and John wanted to get his hands above it to grasp the iron. He moved toward the door just as he heard men shouting: “Get the horses out! Get water!” Other voices joined them and John recognized Sherlock’s in the din: “Why is that horse padlocked in? Someone get a crowbar! Smash the lock!”

Stamford screamed again above him and John made a valiant effort to rise to his feet which failed miserably. He collapsed to the floor, his head spinning. He crawled toward the door of the stall and once there, attempted to right himself again. He could only lift his head up so high before nausea and pain took over. He settled for banging on the door itself and crying out. “Help! Help! I’m trapped in here with the horse! Help!”

Between the rumble of the fire that had now spread to two more stalls, the shouting of the men, the screaming of the horses and the pounding of their hooves, John wasn’t sure he could be heard at all. Waves of panic hit him and he pounded harder. “Help me! I’m in here!”

A familiar voice shouted from above him: “Over here! There’s someone trapped!”

“Leave the horse!” said another voice. “It’s locked in and there’s no key. It’s a goner!”

“There is a person trapped in here! I’m not going to leave him, so either help me or fuck off!” cried Sherlock. John smiled at the authoritative snap in Sherlock’s voice. He wished he could stand so he could help him shift the lock.

Stamford decided at that moment to turn into a whirling dervish. He circled his little stall, knocking himself into all the walls, hooves coming down on hay, wooden flooring, and iron bars, horseshoes clanging metal on metal. There was a _snap-ping_ of metal as the lock broke and John was grateful to see the stall door being pushed open. But then, so was Stamford.

The beast rushed the door and John held up his arms to protect himself and he could hear the choppers again, the gunfire, the shouts of his men dead and dying in the desert heat. But the door did not open the whole way. A hand shot in and grabbed John by the collar. He was roughly pulled through a space just wide enough to accommodate a grown man lying on his side. John kicked at the floor ineffectually in order to assist his progress, as Stamford was rushing in the small space from the door to the far corner and back again and again.

A strong arm was about his chest and pulled him completely out. Before John had time to thank Sherlock, he was gone from his side and opening the door wider for the horse, blocking John with his body so that the animal would not turn the wrong way and stampede over his prone figure. Stamford lunged for the door, brushing Sherlock and knocking him backward as it barreled for the open end of the barn beyond. More men came with buckets of water and hoses to put out the flames, but they had also taken the precaution of wrapping cloth around their noses and mouths to protect themselves. Sherlock and John hadn’t that luxury.

Sherlock laid on his back next to John watching the workers with bewilderment. He looked to John. “You know something,” he said between coughing fits, “don’t you?”

John smiled and merely nodded. “I think so,” he choked. “Can we get out of here first?”

Other workers helped them both to their feet and soon they were seated in the small copse of trees that bordered the south garden, wrapped in blankets, sharing a tank of oxygen, and drinking water. After several minutes silence – in which John could hear Sherlock physically restraining himself from asking John all the questions he had in his head – Sherlock couldn’t stand it any longer and said: “You saw something or heard something?”

“Both.”

“When?”

“Today. After I left your company, actually.”

Where?”

“Old boathouse I discovered. ‘Round the back of it is sort of a love nest.”

“A love nest- Oh. Oh!” said Sherlock and his eyes went distant.

“You know something?” asked John, his voice betraying his excitement. “You know who the criminal is?”

“I need more data,” said Sherlock, steepling his fingers and placing them over his lips. He pulled his hands away and looked sharply at John. “This is the bit where you tell me everything you know.”

“Ah, right,” said John. And he did.

 

~080~

 

“Your information is highly valuable, Dr. Watson,” said Sherlock. They had left the blankets and the oxygen behind in favor of heading toward the main house. Most of the extra workers from the chapel were helping with the barn and the family had come out to estimate the damage and direct the servants. All were in attendance including the two men that John had seen in the boathouse who had assaulted him. “And now,” said Sherlock, “we must move quickly. If they see you, our chance will have been lost. Hurry!”

Sherlock broke into a long-legged run and John did what he could to keep up, despite his lungs burning and arguing every step of the way along the back path and toward the front door. They walked straight in, knowing full well they should have used the servant’s entrance on the other side of the manor house. They ran into no interference as they made their way through several well-appointed rooms and up the main staircase toward the bedrooms. “Where the hell are we going, Sherlock?” gasped John.

“To search a bedroom in this house for the marquis’ diamonds,” said Sherlock and he placed a slender finger to his lips.

John looked about him reflexively as Sherlock tried one of the doors along the corridor. It was locked. He reached into his back followed. “Come on,” whispered Sherlock as he stood and opened the door. pocket for a pouch containing a lock-picking set and John gaped for a split second before putting on a mask of conspiratorial seriousness and checking out the hallway again, listening for any sign of their presence being

Inside John nearly ran up Sherlock’s heels as the detective stood stock still and observed the room. It was a square chamber, hardwood floored, walls painted a cheerful yellow. Two massive windows looked out over the grand drop to the sea and the room smelled faintly of sea air and roses. The bed was a large four-poster affair and sat atop a thick Oriental rug. What other furniture was scattered about was Regency in style but copies, not genuine antique. Sherlock took all of this in in one sweeping categorizing glance as he stood just in the door and then, suddenly and with purpose, he strode to the middle of the room and walked along the bare floorboards pacing them back and forth with a measured step.

John watched for a moment and began opening drawers in the first dresser he came to. “Don’t bother with those,” said Sherlock. “He wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave them in a drawer where even the maid could find it.”

“Never hurts to search anyway,” said John with a shrug. “We may find a clue. And whose room are we in anyway?”

“Thomas Marchant,” said Sherlock. “Catherine Trevor’s intended.”

“How did you know that this was his room?” asked John.

“Process of elimination,” said Sherlock. “The family occupies the entire south wing; the guests therefore occupy the north wing. Any servant’s quarters that are still used are on the upper levels and do not enter into the equation. What I find more interesting is,” and here he paused and regarded the armoire that sat in the corner opposite the door, “there used to be doors that interconnected these rooms. The entire wing of the house was changed. This wing actually used to be sitting rooms and servant’s quarters before they built out-buildings on the grounds. Some of the servants still stay in the house up on the second floor, but most are off-site.” Sherlock regarded the fireplace thoughtfully, his speech halting with his efforts at cogitation.

The fireplace was an impressive blue marble and sat to one side of the armoire and John couldn’t help but ask: “It’s almost too ornate for a simple servant’s bedroom, isn’t it? So this must have been a sitting room.”

Sherlock stooped and swiped a finger between the floorboards, brought it to his nose, and inhaled deeply. A dissatisfied grimace appeared on his face and he got low to the ground and sniffed at the floor like a bloodhound. John watched in stupefied silence, the question “What the hell are you doing?” threatening to leap from his lips at any moment. Sherlock looked up at him with a wry grin. “It was a smoking room.” He got to his feet.

“A smoking room?” asked John. “You mean where the gentlemen would retire for smoking and brandy after dinner? That sort of thing?”

“That sort of thing precisely,” said Sherlock, pushing past him and heading to the door. “There’s still the strong scent of tobacco between the floorboards.” He carefully opened it, looked out, and vanished. John felt a thrill of panic set in when he realized that Sherlock might just have left him behind. He hurried to leave before he could get nicked and was halted by the sudden return of the detective. He looked sharply at John and said: “We need to get into the next room. And I need some twine.”

John looked at him incredulously. “Alright, but where are we going to get some twine?”

“I don’t know,” said Sherlock biting his lip.

“What do you need the twine for?”

“To measure something,” said Sherlock. “I need to confirm a hypothesis.”

John’s eyes traveled around the room for something that would fit the bill. Finally he smiled at Sherlock who gave him a quizzical look. John walked past him and into the en suite bath. “Here you go,” said John, holding aloft the dental floss he spotted on the vanity sink.

 

~080~

 

“Someone’s coming,” murmured John as Sherlock knelt before the door. The noises down the corridor grew louder as the family drew near. The two men’s voices that John could hear were very familiar and his heart raced. “Hurry!” he whispered harshly.

“Now what are we going to do?” whined one voice.

“We have to figure out who he is and where he works,” said the other. “He’s probably worse for wear what with all the smoke. He’s cowering in the woods somewhere, the bloody coward.”

“He fights pretty well for a coward, Vic,” said the other.

“Shut up,” said Vic.

The two men gained the landing from the main stair just as Sherlock closed and secured the door behind them. The room was another guest room but was currently unused; they were quite alone and would never be sought for here – as long as they were quiet. Sherlock gave John a doubtful look.

John never saw the men’s faces, but he wanted to beat them both senseless for calling him a coward. His hand flexed and he paced a bit. “Calm yourself, doctor,” whispered Sherlock as he listened for the door next to theirs to close with both men behind it. “Clearly they don’t know what kind of man you are.”

“Who the hell is Vic?” asked John. No sooner had the words left his mouth, his brain put two and two together. “Oh Christ. That’s not Victor Trevor?” He pointed at the common wall between the two rooms.

“I’m afraid so,” said Sherlock.

“So the men I saw at the boathouse…” said John. Sherlock sighed waiting for John to catch up.

“Yes, John,” said Sherlock. “They are lovers.”

“Fantastic,” said John. “So why is he bothering to marry Gwendolyn? Shouldn’t he just marry Victor?”

“This is not the type of family that holds _those_ kinds of wedding ceremonies,” said Sherlock dryly, his whole aspect disdainful. “And besides, I’m not so sure Victor is willing to be wed. Least of all to Thomas.”

“Why not?” asked John. “Seems they were getting along pretty well at the boathouse.”

“Victor’s not the committing type,” said Sherlock and he pulled arm-length strands of dental floss out of the container. “Hold this at the base of the door jamb.” He held the end of the floss out to John.

“I don’t understand,” said John. “What are we measuring exactly?”

“The distance between door jambs,” said Sherlock. He ran the floss along the floor until he reached the common wall between the two rooms. “If I’m right, and I have no reason to suspect that I’m not, I think we’ll find that if we take the measurements from the insides of the room and compare them to the outer corridor distance between the jambs, we’ll come up short on the interior measure.”

“You think there’s some lost space between the rooms?” asked John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, snipping the floss off at the wall.

“A hidden compartment, you think?” asked John.

“More like an entire room,” said Sherlock.

Before John could say “amazing”, there was a slam of a door in the corridor. The door opened again. “How dare you!” shouted the voice John now knew to be Thomas. “After all I’ve done!”

“Lower your voice,” hissed Victor.

“You ungrateful-“ The words were cut off suddenly as if a hand had fallen over Thomas’ mouth. John knew it was Victor kissing his words away. He looked at Sherlock who had come to their door as quickly as he had and leaned against it trying to better hear the argument.

Sherlock’s eyes were unfocused again and he looked a little sad. John wanted to ask him what was wrong, but he didn’t dare. Sherlock Holmes had known him for all of a few hours. Why should the man be anything but a professional? What gave John the right to think he could pry?

The door slammed again and Sherlock said: “Damn.”

John had missed the plot. “What?”

“They’re in there together,” said Sherlock. “God knows when they’ll leave.”

“So if they don’t leave,” said John, “we can’t leave.”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “We have to finish our measuring. This may be the only opportunity we have.”

“And so we’re trapped here until further notice,” said John wandering around the drop-cloth covered furniture. He pulled one off idly wondering what was beneath and exposed a walnut-framed full-length mirror. “Well, at least we’ll have a good view of the ocean.” He drew back the drawn curtain slightly and looked out.

“Will anyone come looking for you?” asked Sherlock.

“No,” said John. “I work mainly on my own in a deserted part of the property – you saw.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Good. That’s good.”

There was a dull thud that came from next door. It was followed by a low moan. John stood straighter. “Calm down, doctor,” said Sherlock. “No one’s being hurt over there.” The thud came again and again at intervals that were unmistakable. “I do have to say that they’re taking a hell of a risk doing that in the main house. They could get caught.”

“Perhaps that’s the point?” asked John with a sly smirk. Sherlock looked at him, lost. John looked puzzled for a moment and explained: “Well I know that sneaking about when my parents weren’t home… it added to the thrill of it all.” Sherlock continued to look at John; he seemed to be mesmerized. “Don’t you agree?” asked John. “I mean – all this sneaking about we’ve been doing has been a bit thrilling, yeah?”

Finally Sherlock huffed a laugh. “As thrilling as being a soldier?” he asked.

John sobered immediately. “Don’t Sherlock… just… don’t.” He took a breath and said: “We were talking of sex and a bit of cloak and dagger, not of watching my comrades drop down dead before my eyes and me unable to do anything about it.”

Sherlock was cowed. “I see.” Giving him a sheepish look he continued: “I didn’t mean…”

“Nevermind,” said John.

After another awkward minute of hearing the two lover’s moan softly together, Sherlock chuckled again and offered: “This job does have its dangers, you know. It can be exciting like that, like a battlefield.” He grinned widely at John.

“I’ll admit that there are certain risks, yes,” John replied rubbing at the lump on his head. “But it’s not exactly a never-ending fire-fight, is it?” he added nodding to the common wall between the rooms. “It’s not death and dead all about, is it?” A large part of him wanted out of that room. He never wanted to go back to cutting down brambles so badly in his life before. He wanted out of that room right then and there – consequences be damned. There were other jobs for a gardener. He could be happy elsewhere. He had no doubt that if those two were so preoccupied in their throes, he could easily sneak back down the hall and out the service entrance with no one to stop him.

But there was a niggling sense of belonging that kept him where he was. He didn’t feel trapped in that room so much as he felt obligated through some misplaced allegiance to be there, a sense of duty given to the callous, clinical, detective he barely knew. John shook his head in disgust at the idea that he could be so suddenly loyal to a man he barely understood. He knew he should leave; logically, it was the only choice. But he stayed where he was and paced the floor waiting for Sherlock to give him an order like a good soldier. The thought made him angry.

“Occasionally there are dead bodies,” said Sherlock. “It’s just that this is a robbery case. They’ll be more death I’m sure. A serial killer perhaps. Would that please you?” Sherlock watched John carefully as he treaded the floorboards in a steady rhythmic step, his hand flexing. The soldier remained silent. Sherlock chose another tack: “If you wish to leave the investigation, you have every right. All I ask is that you be available for a statement to Scotland Yard once this is resolved. Detective Inspector Lestrade will want it.”

“Is that all?” asked John, his anger surprising him. “You treat my time in hell as if it were a game and then tell me I can go?”

“All I did was say-“

“No, you laughed,” said John. “You fucking laughed and waited for me to say that this was more exciting that soldiering, than feeling the threat of death trickle down the back of your neck like a bead of sweat. You wanted me to tell you that this was the bigger thrill.”

“Isn’t it?” asked Sherlock.

The images of the dying and dead passed over John’s vision, the helicopter blades beat in his ears. He wanted to kick him. He wanted to kill him. His breathing became ragged and he leapt at Sherlock’s throat. “You fucking bastard!”

Sherlock’s hands shot to John’s wrists as he attempted to loosen his grip. Both men’s faces reddened with their efforts and they struggled on their feet, each man attempting to shove the other one over to gain advantage. Sherlock’s eyes shot to the room next door. The sounds of their struggle were the only ones he heard and past a half-closed throat he managed: “The others… they’ve heard us....”

John let go. Both men turned toward the wall and waited in silence. There was nothing. “Perhaps they’ve finished and fell asleep,” offered John. His whole body tingled with anticipation.

“Victor snores,” whispered Sherlock.

John turned to Sherlock and stared at his profile. “And you would know that, how?”

Sherlock eyed John. “Experience.” His eyes settled again on the wall.

John looked blankly back at the wall. “I see,” he said. “And since you and Victor have this history together… if he ever saw you here, he would know something was up.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock admitted.

“Which explains why you’ve been such a cowardy custard about leaving this room.”

Sherlock shot him a sharp look. “I’m not afraid of Victor.” His eyes went back to the wall, staring ahead as if to see through the wall and into the compartment beyond. There was nothing but eerie stillness from the other side.

John stood before Sherlock and his eyes held steady on him. “You are afraid,” he said. “Otherwise, why wouldn’t you have come to this house as a guest rather than a stablehand? Surely observing the family would have been simpler if you stayed here in the main house rather than sneaking about in the shadows and ducking through service entrances. You’re blind scared of him, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock’s mouth tightened. It was the only sign he gave of John getting to him, so he pressed. “What did Victor do to you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked and finally glanced down to meet John’s gaze. “He…,” he began. It took him a matter of seconds before he decided to tell John the truth. “He was my first… and I was too naïve to know what I wanted or to think I had the right to say. He was…. “ Sherlock trailed off into memory until he felt the warm hand of the doctor’s on his. He met his warm gaze with a profound sense of relief.

The bruises from John’s earlier angry outburst were beginning to bloom on Sherlock’s skin and he traced at them with a fingertip. “Dear God,” whispered John. “I’m so sorry I did this.”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Sherlock said wryly. "And you are justified, doctor. I've never been to a proper war. I had no right to compare my world with your experiences."

John found his hand slipping behind Sherlock’s neck and pulling him in for an embrace. “I’m sorry he hurt you, Sherlock,” he said into his curls behind his ear. “I’m sorry you were mistreated.”

“Thank you, doctor, but it was years ago,” Sherlock replied quietly, not certain as to why the embrace didn’t feel as awkward as anyone else’s.

John pulled his head back and traced his nose against the detective’s jawline. He smelled of hay and smoke. John wondered what he tasted like. He took a chance and leaned in. Tea… and something else.

Afghanistan had been rough. A man had to seek solace in wherever he could find it. John’s comrades never knew his commanding officer and he had found that solace in each other’s arms and they would never have betrayed each other for the world – not that they were ashamed to be with someone of the same gender, but more that the difference in their ranks would cause more than a little ripple with the powers that be. Major and captain were both ranking titles, to be sure, but one was superior to the other and neither man wanted to cause trouble for the other. They learned to have quiet trysts, long talks in the dark in whispered tones, and shared looks that meant volumes. After John was sent home, he went straight up to Scotland, determined to put everything behind him. And that included Major Sholto.

But Sherlock was a different matter. There was nothing to be ashamed of here, no rank difference to be careful of. There was, however, the threat of getting caught. And that’s what sent John’s adrenaline to pumping as the kiss deepened and they dropped all pretense.

John could feel Sherlock wrapping his arms around his waist and he pulled the ex-soldier to him tighter, reveling in the feel of his hardened body against him. This was different from any kiss he had been given.

John hadn’t felt this in ages: the stubble along his mouth, the hardness of the body against him. His desire was pooling at the base of his stomach, gathering and needy. He had a sudden flash image of Sherlock laying on loose hay in the stables, hair disheveled, eyes filled with desire, mouth red from rough kisses. As Sherlock pulled away and looked almost the same as he did in John’s mind’s eye, John looked about them in desperation. He needed this man beneath him – now.

The bed in the room was bare save for a dust cloth over the mattress. That would do. Sherlock had smirked at him, following his train of thought and stripped his shirt off in anticipation. “You don’t mind?” asked John. “I mean: this isn’t too sudden for two men who’ve just met?”

“No,” said Sherlock, “I don’t mind.”

John continued nervously: “And besides: no one will come looking for us if we’re quiet and we can’t leave until the coast is clear and we’re sure their either asleep or have left the room completely.” John maneuvered him toward the bed and Sherlock allowed himself to be backed up until the mattress hit the back of his thighs. Fortunately, this bed was not against the common wall between the rooms, but lay opposite it. A gigantic armoire dominated the wall in question and out of the corner of his eye, John thought he could see a low light coming from underneath it. He stopped in his tracks. “What in the hell is that?”

Sherlock peered at what John was looking at. Suddenly, he smirked at John. “If my theory is correct, that is the opening between the two rooms.” He kissed at his neck.

“Their room has an entrance and this room has one as well?” asked John, trying to focus on the subject at hand while Sherlock’s mouth continued to be a great distraction. He looked down to find that the detective had unbuttoned his shirt as he sucked at his collarbone. “Oh you bad man,” whispered John.

“It seems to be that way,” said Sherlock. It took John a moment to realize that Sherlock was talking about the second entrance to the secret room rather than agreeing with John that he was indeed a bad man. Not that it mattered; John had closed his eyes again as Sherlock reached his nipple and closed his teeth around it gently.

“God damn,” he breathed.

“I would also go so far as to say that they have used this room for the odd tryst as well,” said Sherlock nodding to the bedside table. John turned and noticed that it was not covered with a cloth – at least not completely. The dust cover had been pushed aside and the little drawer was partially open. Inside were lube and condoms.

“But doesn’t that mean that they can get in here? I mean, either through the main door or the-“

He had been nodding toward the armoire when it began to move aside as if on a hinge. It would be a matter of seconds before they were caught unless they acted quickly. The slow roll of the huge piece of furniture continued and the light from the window shone upon an arm and hand that pressed against the back of the armoire. Sherlock and John looked at each other and bolted from the room, snatching up their clothing before escaping out into the corridor.

“And who the devil are you?” asked Thomas, addressing the question to Sherlock as he burst out of the room first. Thomas had been waiting out in the corridor for whomever he had heard in the next room to come out. Sherlock wondered if it was Victor’s idea to have him stand there in the middle of what could only be described as a two-man stampede. He pushed past Thomas with John at his heels.

If Thomas got a good look, he would have recognized John in an instant. John didn’t give him time to recover. He didn’t even stop to think; he just reacted. His fist came up and shot out, the whole of his bodyweight behind it, just as Thomas turned his head to right himself after Sherlock nearly knocked him over. His fist connected and Thomas went down hard and stayed there.

Sherlock and John hurried from the house, buttoning their clothing and racing to the tree line just beyond the service entrance. They dove into the wood, hearts racing, feet pumping until they came to a clearing at the cliff’s edge. The gasped for breath, Sherlock arching back, hands on hips, John doubled over, hands on knees. “Fuck me, that was close,” gasped John. He glanced back at Sherlock who was grinning at him.

John’s shirt was haphazardly buttoned in his haste. It had exposed the scar on his shoulder he tried so hard to forget. Sherlock’s sharp eyes found it first, his fingers found it second; they traced it carefully.

John shrugged. “It was in another life.”

“And so you became a gardener,” said Sherlock. His tone held more than a little meaning and John did not fail to pick up on it.

He blushed furiously, but wasn’t embarrassed. He was angry. “Look,” he said. “What I chose to become after Kand- after my time in the army -  was my decision.”

“But it’s not who you are,” said Sherlock, softly stroking his back. He tilted his head to make eye contact. “You are a soldier and a doctor. And look at you: thrilled to be part of something again, thrilled to be “sneaking about” as you call it. You miss adventure. You miss the battlefield.”

John shook his head, but Sherlock found his lips again. John pulled back. “I think we’d better go,” he said.

Sherlock stopped and evaluated John’s body language and expression. “I see,” he said. “I have misspoken again.” His eyes cast about, his hands dropped to his side. “My apologies, doctor. I was simply attempting to tell you the truth of the matter.”

“Yes,” said John awkwardly, “well….” John cleared his throat.

“Indeed,” said Sherlock, slipping past him toward the wood. “You really should stick with me, you know. See this thing through.”

“And why is that?” asked John, putting his shirt back on properly.

“Because I’m right,” said Sherlock. “You love this.” And he disappeared into the wood.

John’s heart sank. Sherlock had been half right. He did love the adventure, Sherlock's battlefield, and he feared it too. But he was also afraid that he was falling in love with the madman he was now following into the cool dark of the wood despite his better judgment and past the point of reason. He could still taste him on his lips and the adrenalin caused rippling tremors along his limbs. He knew he should stop and be reasonable, to try to be a man of peace and quiet, but he couldn’t; he wanted more. He wanted Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Chapter 4

They tromped through the wood together for a long while, circling around the main house and coming to stop on the edge of the wood that bordered the huge front garden at the front of the property. The main house was in full view, but within a copse of trees further along and beyond the main drive the roof of the stables peeked through the treetops. There was no trace of damage along it.

Sherlock pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. John watched him watching the distant building. “What now?” he asked.

“There,” said Sherlock, pointing. “Victor leaving the house.”

“Where’s Thomas?” John asked.

“One presumes in his rooms, what with the new black eye he’s sporting. Besides Victor won’t want Thomas around at the moment; he’s got to find us. And Thomas can’t go strolling about helping him, now can he?”

“I suppose not,” said John. He rubbed his knuckles idly as he watched Victor greet his father and sisters on his way toward the stables. “What’s he telling them, do you think?”

“I have no idea,” said Sherlock, “but whatever it was they seem satisfied.” The family parted ways and Victor headed toward the stables, the rest to the path that led to the chapel. Once both parties were completely out of sight, Sherlock put out his cigarette. He touched John gently on the arm signaling for him to follow. They made their way across the well-kept garden before taking Victor’s path under the cool shadow of the trees.

“You’re not going to confront him?” John whispered as they moved quickly along the path.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Sherlock. “We’re headed to the stables.”

“Why?” asked John.

“Because it’s the last place they’ll look and I need to send a text,” said Sherlock. “They would have evacuated the stables and all should be quiet for some time. Come with me, quickly.”

They entered the stables by the servant entrance at the side and headed up the stair to the levels above where all the stable hands had their accommodation. Sherlock’s rooms looked back toward the main house, its roof just visible over the treetops. John locked the door behind them as Sherlock reached behind the dresser and pulled out a plastic bag that had been taped there. Inside was a mobile phone which he opened and quickly sent a message on. “And who was that then?” asked John, pointing to the phone.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” he said and tossed the phone on the dresser. He steepled his fingers under his chin and watched the house carefully. “They’ll try to move the jewels - possibly tonight.”

“Of course,” said John. “So we need to – what? Go back to the house? Catch them in the act?”

“Or we could wait to see where they take it,” said Sherlock. “It’s a less messy option.”

“You’re afraid of confronting Victor,” said John. Sherlock gave him a side-eyed stare, but otherwise didn’t move a muscle. “You are,” said John, convinced. “What are you so afraid of? He’s aiding and abetting a criminal act. He’s a criminal himself. And a liar. What do you have to fear from such a man?”

Sherlock turned to John, his body language stiff as he brought his hands down and clenched them into fists at his sides. “That is none of your business.”

John stared at him in shock for a moment before replying: “Now hang on a minute, you asked me if I wanted to be a party to this. I agreed not quite realizing exactly what I was in for other than a bit of reconnaissance. And here we are now at the cusp of catching these bastards red-handed and you won’t tell me why you’re so reticent about confronting one of the ringleaders-“

“Victor is hardly the ringleader-“

“That’s not the point, Sherlock!” said John. He took a steadying breath and went on: “The point is, you need to trust me - completely. We’re comrades in arms, you and me. We need to know about each other’s weaknesses and strengths. We need to be able to rely on one another – even now – especially now.”

“John,” said Sherlock softly. It was a plea. “I have great capacity for understanding many things… but I have never excelled at the finer points of human nature. I don’t know what I did to trigger him, to make him so angry with me. But he was and I couldn’t understand how to fix-“

Sherlock sat down heavily on the bed. “He hit you,” said John. It wasn’t a question, not exactly. He had not seen the effects of an abusive relationship with his own two eyes, but he had the capacity for understanding the long-term effects. He sat next to Sherlock on the bed and rubbed his back soothingly. “I’m sorry, mate.” And after a moment he asked quietly: “Do you still love him?”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“Look,” said John. “You are far from stupid. You took this case knowing that it would lead up here. You knew the chances of meeting him were high. You had to realize that confrontation would be part of this. At the very least, you knew you’d at least _see_ him. Please tell me you had planned for the encounter at least a little?”

Sherlock shrugged ineffectually. “I suppose I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. That I hoped I could just be the stable hand, solve the crime, call in Lestrade and his sniffer dogs, and he would simply be none the wiser.”

“Avoidance,” said John.

“If you want to get psychological, yes,” said Sherlock.

John stared at him, unsure whether to hit him or hold him. In the end, he chose the latter. He stood, and placed himself between Sherlock’s knees. The detective’s eyes were filled with curious expectation. John wrapped his arms around him and held his head to his chest, rubbing down his back. “You’re not alone in this, you know. I’m here helping you. You don’t have to go it alone.” Instinctively, he planted a kiss in his messy curls. “You saved my life today. Don’t think I’m just going to walk away from that with a handshake and a smile as my thanks. I owe you, Sherlock Holmes. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock brought up his face and John kissed him softly. Hungrily, Sherlock reached up and clung to John as the kiss deepened. The kiss was water to a thirsty man, a balm, a source of life. Tongues slid against each other as they fell together on the bed, Sherlock almost hitting his head on the windowsill. They giggled at the near-miss and re-arranged themselves properly. Sherlock looked like heaven on a pillow as John kissed him deeply again.

Hands slid over cloth as they intertwined their bodies to suit their needs, the two eventually changing positions, John’s deep blue eyes staring up at Sherlock. Chests were slowly exposed and explored by fumbling sightless fingers as their lips met time and time again, now softly, now passionately. Sherlock brushed John’s nipple and the doctor let out a low moan that pleased Sherlock greatly. He pinched his nipple again and was greeted with such a positive result, he thought he might try his mouth. This garnered even better results and he experimented with the other one. “Jesus, Sherlock,” whispered John. “Oh Christ, don’t stop.”

Sherlock felt John’s hands in his hair as he continued to worry his nipple with his tongue and mouth. His hands wandered down to John’s waist, snaking beneath his trouser top to tickle the course hair he found there. His mouth joined his hand by way of kissing a trail down his stomach until he could sweep his tongue beneath his trousers and pants along the delicate skin. John’s belly jumped at the sensation of warm wet _so close_ to where he needed it to be. “P-please, Sherlock,’ he begged.

Sherlock placed his huge hand over the distinct bulge in John’s trousers and John gasped. “Fucking hell.”

“John,” Sherlock breathed onto his skin and he heard the doctor respond with another lascivious moan. Slowly, deftly, he unbuttoned and unzipped and exposed John’s pants, tented with the erection beneath. “I want to watch you cum,” said Sherlock. “Is that alright?”

“Whatever you want,” whispered John. “Oh God, just please don’t stop.”

A devilish smile flicked across his face as he pressed it to John’s clothed erection. He rutted his nose against its length and mouthed along the shaft over and over, feeling John’s hips rise to meet him and increase the pressure and friction he so badly hungered for. “God damn,” said John, pressing Sherlock’s face against him further with his hands against his head. Precum wet the material and Sherlock’s lips found it sticky-slick. He moaned his approval and John came unglued. “Shit! Fuck!” he said. “Do that again, you fucking genius.” Sherlock worked his mouth just over where he estimated the frenulum to be and hummed low and long. John keened with pleasure and rolled his hips upward toward the delicious vibration, hands fisting in Sherlock’s hair.

John was acutely aware of everything around him and Sherlock’s ministrations only heightened his awareness; they couldn’t afford any interruptions.  He jumped at any noise in the building out in the corridor or below where the many workers and stable hands were clearing out the burnt hay and assessing the damage done to the structure. A seagull landed on the roof outside the window, its cry startling John’s focus out to the blue sky and treetops. Sherlock’s warm mouth swallowed his balls through his pants and John’s body responded again in an unearthly moan, back arched.

“Stop worrying,” Sherlock managed between oral massages to John’s most tender place. He rubbed his belly soothingly. “No one will come looking for us.”

Outside came a shout: “Where the fuck is William?”

“Dammit,” said Sherlock. He pressed his forehead against John’s thigh.

John looked down at him. “Spoke too soon?”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock.

“He was here before the fire was out, sir,” cried another voice.

“Well find him, then!” said the stable master. “We need all the hands we can get!”

“Shit,” said Sherlock.

“Oh come on,” moaned John. Sherlock met his eyes and they shared a laugh. “We best get up. You’re needed badly, it seems.”

They re-dressed themselves and made their way down to the ground floor where the bustle was. They both joined the others in clearing out the barn and making secure all the horses released during the fire. John didn’t know much more about horse-husbandry than Sherlock did, but clearing out stables was easy enough. With so many to lend a hand, it was the perfect place to hide from Victor’s frantic search for them as well as bury them in their aliases. They blended in with the other workers and Victor never found them.

The downside of course was that Sherlock and John had no idea where Victor was. They could only assume that he had rejoined his family at the manor house in time for supper. Their day done, Sherlock and John retired back to John’s cottage to discuss what had to happen next.

“They are sure to move the jewels now,” said Sherlock.

“Why would they?” asked John. “They don’t necessarily think that we found the hiding place, do they?”

Sherlock sighed. “They have to assume the worst at the moment.”

“And guests will be arriving for the wedding tomorrow,” said John. “They’ll be so much happening in the house and on the grounds, there’ll be no way to keep track of them.”

“And there’ll be no way to keep track of us,” said Sherlock, grinning. “Come on.” He made for the door, opened it, and stood in the doorway dramatically. “We have to steal something to catch a couple of thieves, John. Are you with me?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” came John’s reply as he grabbed his keys and made off with Sherlock into the night.

 

~080~

 

The servant’s livery was kept just past the larder near the kitchens. It was a matter of a few purposeful strides down busy corridors along the servant’s pathways in the house in order to gain the rooms where the livery hung like a thousand silent butlers. Sherlock squinted at the sizes and pulled coat, waistcoat, trousers, and shoes for both him and John. John carried them in his outstretched arms as Sherlock loaded him up with their ill-gotten gains. “That should do it,” said Sherlock shortly and turned to go.

“And where are you going with that?” said the head footman.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sherlock. “We were told to take what fit us and prepare to serve at the wedding feast.” He attempted to push past him, but the footman was not to be moved.

“Put those things back,” he said. “You think I can’t tell outside staff from inside? You have no right to be here nor experience in serving-“

Sherlock cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Then I suggest you take it up with the bride’s father. He’s the one who said that – now let me see if I’ve gotten this right – ‘even a monkey can pour champagne’. Apparently, he wanted us in the suits to match.”

“Don’t think I won’t mention this to his lordship,” said the footman, straightening his waistcoat with a firm tug.

“Tut tut,” scolded Sherlock. “Surely someone as well-versed in household etiquette such as yourself would know that his lordship would find it a horrible misstep for you to attempt to gain audience with him directly. Do tell the head butler first; elsewise I fear that your attempt at complaint might result in your redundancy. Not that sleeping with the scullery maid and his lordship’s youngest daughter would ever curry favor with anyone in this house.”

The footman blanched and blubbered, “What? I- I-“

“My dear fellow, let us pass and prepare for the duties set to us before I produce the love letters young Fiona has gotten from you,” said Sherlock coolly. John was stunned and awed. His face wore a silly grin that slowly bloomed as Sherlock continued to confound the man who barred their way.

“She kept them,” he whispered, mystified. “I told her to burn th-“ He cut himself off and recovered slightly. “You bastard! How do you know about them?”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” said Sherlock. He made one last effort to push past him and found himself and John successful in the endeavor. “Good day, sir,” called Sherlock over his shoulder as they carried off the perfect disguises to blend in at the wedding reception of the century.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning of the wedding was a riot of preparation. There were arrivals, last-minute changes, and nervousness and all of these pervaded every facet of the wedding arrangements.

In the chapel workers swept and hoovered the red carpet that led to the altar where the florist and the wedding planner were having a rather heated discussion that strained the very nature of civility. They had arrived an hour later than expected and the buntings didn’t match the spray on the altar which the florist insisted was correct because of a last-minute change the bride had made but she never told the planner. Her assistant was discussing seating logistics with the head groundskeeper because the chapel could only comfortably seat two hundred fifty guests yet there were three hundred and two expected in attendance. More chairs were being moved into the narthex, but only twenty-five would fit. And where would they put the great aunt on the bride’s side when the dear lady was in a wheelchair and had to be lifted over the stairs at the front of the chapel as it was? As it was, she kept having to tell all the workers that no, those seats couldn’t be moved to the narthex because they were reserved for the violinist and the alto soloist that were supposed to sing during the ceremony, and would someone please go to the reception tent and see if some chairs couldn’t be borrowed for the ceremony and then returned for the reception?

The under-groundskeeper nodded to her and rushed off to the massive tent that was erected on the sprawling front garden to house all the guests and wedding party for the reception to ask about the seats. He waited patiently for the head butler to break off his conversation with the head of housekeeping. He could see there were problems here as well as the butler was doing his best to see that all the table arrangements were set properly and that all seating placards were placed on the correct seats in accordance with the bride and groom’s wishes except… it seemed that the bride had forgotten that Lady Greenwood had divorced her husband Lord Greenwood and his new wife was therefore not given a seating placement. He tutted at this and studied the chart to see if a new arrangement could be made as the centerpieces finally arrived from the florist – with arrangements that had decidedly too much baby’s breath as compared to white roses. And the sachets of candied-covered almonds that were to be set beside the placement cards all had ribbons that said: “Congratulations on your baby boy!” which was decidedly presumptuous considering that Miss Gwendolyn had never had sex in her life (according to her mother) and there were three young kitchen maids hurriedly removing all the little ribbons with tiny sewing scissors and replacing them with ribbons of pale green instead of pale blue because, oh dear, they hadn’t a spool of pale blue ribbon in any shop in the nearby town – according to the harried footman who had been sent out to retrieve the item.

When the footman came back and gave his disappointing news, he hurried back to the kitchens which were the picture of organized chaos. The cook shouted at him to wash his hands and get in his livery if he expected to serve at the wedding in any fashion. He hurried past all the other bustling bodies, nearly tipping over the kitchen maid who was trying to guide a pot of boiling sugar to a flat tray which lay on the great work table in the center of the room. Thankfully she didn’t scald herself as she poured the clear bubbling sugar out, because once it cooled, it was going to be cracked and ground into a rough crystalline dust that would coat the tops of each of the layers of the buttercream frosting on the wedding cake which currently took up residence in the walk-in refrigerator. Everything was noise and commotion as kitchem maid and scullery maid alike were side by side, whisking this and stirring that with three sets of hands gone missing and a cook who was slowly coming to a boil herself. Another kitchen maid was also attempting to make up for the three that were re-ribboning the sachets as she stirred a pot of soup here, tossed a pan of garlic and shallots there, and made sure that all two thousand stuffed mushrooms were cooked properly in the ovens, a batch of sixty at a time. Plates of hors d’ouvres were being arranged carefully and whisked away efficiently upstairs and to the waiting guests who wandered the great hall, the portrait room, and the library, blissfully unaware of the cacophony of the tumult below.

More guests streamed in the doors and the host and hostess were on hand to greet each person with just enough time in between hellos to mutter to each other as to whom exactly they just said hello. The groom was helping himself to his third glass of champagne as Victor gave him a dark look from across the room that warned against becoming too intoxicated before wedding his sister. It was an hour until the wedding and if Thomas didn’t let up, he would be weaving at the altar – something Victor’s father would not tolerate.

Grandmother Trevor passed Thomas and climbed the grand staircase unable to wait for her granddaughter’s first appearance as a bride-to-be in the chapel. She reached the girl’s door and gave it a rap. It was opened to her by a half-dressed bride’s maid who had yet to find help to zip her up. Grandmother Trevor gave her a wan smile and haltingly obliged, scanning the room for the scurrying figure that represented her granddaughter – no, not that one – the one who was getting married. There she was by the mirror and as her grandmother approached her she saw her reflection; the girl was green.

“Someone find a maid to get my granddaughter some water!” she announced as she guided the girl to a chair. “What is wrong with everyone? Can’t you see the bride needs some air? You there! Open a window!”

A maid dropped the dress she was helping another bridesmaid into and rushed to the window. “Holy Moses,” the maid whispered as she saw the line of cars streaming down the long drive to the circle drive in front of the house before spinning back to the shrilling bridesmaid who was left dress-less thanks to her clumsy efforts. The bride leaned out of the window at her grandmother’s insistence and waved weakly to a distant cousin who had just stepped from her Mercedes as her husband handed the keys to one of the fifteen valets on hand giving him explicit instruction that not a scratch get on that car and where were they going to park it anyway? The valet assured him that the parking was arranged on the corral just beyond the stables as he took the keys and nodded reassuringly at the gent who was clearly at an event he didn’t have time for.

A horse shied away as the footman cheekily blew the horn on the Mercedes as he passed the stables. The stable hand got him back under control and led him around to the carriage that had been brought out of storage that morning. It was sent in for repair last week, but this was its last spot-check to see that the bride had a comfortable ride from the house to the church and the wedded couple had a pleasant journey from the church to the reception. The horses were brushed and bathed and brushed again to a high shine. Flowers were braided into their manes and all the terrets, tugs, and traces that made up the harness were checked and double-checked for security. Around the collar of each horse ran a spray of white roses to a breastplate displaying the Trevor family crest. The carriage itself had also been thoroughly inspected and the repainted Trevor coats of arms on both doors were resplendent in the sunshine.

Sherlock watched it all from the hayloft with a sniff. “You really don’t like weddings, do you?” said John who stood just behind him waiting for the carriage to clear off so they could rush to the house in their livery and spy to see that the jewels were still where the criminal had left them.

“Not especially,” said Sherlock. “Unnecessary things, if you ask me. More fun for the guests, I suppose. All they have to do is buy a present, show up, and eat.”

“And provide witness to the wedding,” added John.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “A wedding must have only two witnesses to be legal. It certainly doesn’t need a throng of coddled, spoiled, selfish, food-mad, idiots to tell a woman she looks pretty in a dress that she’ll never wear twice.”

“So what you’re saying is: you never want to get married.” He leaned against the opposite window sill and looked at Sherlock with arms crossed.

Sherlock gave him a cursory glance. “You are a master of deduction, doctor. Perhaps I should let you present the case when DI Lestrade gets here.”

“Really?” asked John, not really hoping.

Sherlock shot him a disgusted look and said: “Of course not. That’s the best part. I’m doing that.”

John chuckled and looked him over: He wasn’t yet in the livery and the clothes he was wearing were soiled with muck from the stables. The stable master had set him to mucking early that morning among other unsavory chores and Sherlock looked a mess. His hair was a riot of curls, some of which were still stuck to his forehead and the nape of his neck, his jeans were filthy, his boots were even more so. But his white shirt had suffered the most: it was less a button at the top, the rolled cuffs were practically brown with sweat and dirt and hay, and there were circles under his arms and down the length of his spine where sweat had seeped through and the wet had captured whatever dirt and detritus was floating in the air. In a word, Sherlock Holmes looked eminently fuckable.

John grabbed his elbow and turned the detective to face him. “You’re filthy,” he said.

Sherlock regarded himself and agreed. “I’ll shower quickly and we can head out.”

“We have an hour before we can do anything,” said John. “And even then, the gossip is that their doing the whole service ceremony. They won’t be ready for the reception for another two hours.” He regarded Sherlock with a certain glint of lasciviousness in his eye. “And no one will come looking for us either. You’ve been ordered to your room for misbehavior and I wasn’t invited to the wedding at all.”

“I suppose there’s no rush,” said Sherlock, his eyes softening as John moved closer.

John’s lips brushed Sherlock’s. “Two whole hours with nothing to do,” he mused. He kissed him again.

“I wouldn’t exactly say nothing,” Sherlock murmured and captured John’s mouth with his own. He felt john’s hands in his hair, caressing, gripping, as the kiss deepened and their tongues met. “I’m going to get you filthy if we keep this up.”

“Do you honestly think I care, Sherlock?”

Sherlock grinned and allowed himself to be guided to the stack of rectangular hay bales behind him. He sat in them as John crawled up on his knees to straddle him, kissing him thoroughly. A pile of loose hay was on top of the bales and Sherlock leaned back into it taking John with him, pulling his weight on top and feeling his sex through his jeans pressing into his own hardness. “Christ, yes,” sighed John around another kiss.

Their hips ground against one another and John slipped a hand down the back of Sherlock’s shirt, his calloused hands rough against his skin. Sherlock rucked John’s shirt up and slid one hand up and one hand down, gripping his buttock and his back, pressing him closer, seeking out more friction to satisfy his hard cock’s want. John pressed into him obligingly, tracing his tongue around that amazing mouth in small teasing licks. He bit Sherlock’s lip and let it slide out from between his teeth. John’s thumb found its way into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock sucked at it reflexively as John looked on, a slave to his own hedonistic desire. “You are so fucking sexy, Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock released John’s finger with a wet pop. “I- J-John,” he stammered. “More.” He kissed him and squeezed his body tighter.

John moved his mouth to Sherlock’s neck and nibbled his way down to his suprasternal notch. Sherlock leaned back into the hay obligingly emitting a small whimper of pleasure as John licked at the well of bone and tissue. “You taste like salt and grit and sex, Sherlock.” It was a heady mixture. “And you are rock-fucking-hard, aren’t you, you filthy boy?”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock whispered. “So hard. Please, John. Please.”

John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt slowly, kissing wherever new flesh appeared until one of his nipples was exposed. He worried the nubbin and relished Sherlock’s arched-back reaction and his stifled whimper. “Like that, do you? How about the other?” The second reaction was the same as the first and John knew that if they didn’t take their kit off soon, he would spend himself inside his pants. He pulled at Sherlock’s shirt until it came loose from his trousers and was completely unbuttoned. He sat back to admire a panting Sherlock and gyrated his hips into the man’s hardness to make him whimper again.

Sherlock gripped John’s hips and thrust upward against him. “More, please, John… Please,” he whined.

“Do you want me to suck your cock?” asked John.

“Christ, yes,” said Sherlock.

John regarded him with a wicked grin. “Then come here,” he said and stood up, backing away from Sherlock and toward the window.

The window was a large one, its dimensions coming from the hayloft door that was used when all the hay was transferred via pulley system, before the lift was installed in the far corner. It was certainly large enough to frame two men, one, shirt open with his cock out of his jeans, the other, on his knees gripping the man’s hips as he swallowed his member as deeply as possible. “Someone’s going to see us,” remarked Sherlock.

“I’m willing to risk it,” said John. He smiled impishly around Sherlock’s cock as he sucked the man off. Sherlock carded a hand through John’s hair as his head bobbed slowly along his shaft, his tongue pressing against the underside and swirling around his frenulum just enough to make Sherlock tilt his head back, heedless of the possibility of prying eyes two stories below them. Idly, Sherlock watched the men outside the window scurrying around the carriage. No one so much as glanced up at them and he smiled. John had the best ideas.

He was ready to come, he could feel it. John had been watching him carefully and as the pleasure washed over him just before he shot his load, John pulled off and stood up. Sherlock stuttered and panted, watching John watching him, his cock throbbing and aching, tilting up and down with each breath he took, abs and chest covered in a light sheen of sweat and dirt.

John’s trousers were tight and he needed some release himself. Plus, Sherlock was exposed from throat to balls and John wanted to see all of him. He needed to see him. He pressed himself against Sherlock and kissed the taste of him into his mouth. “You are so fucking beautiful,” said John as he kissed down Sherlock’s neck. “Have I told you that?”

“Not in so many words, doctor,” said Sherlock past his sighs. “But I had noticed certain glances when we first met.”

“Don’t remind me of that day,” said John, pulling away to look him in the eyes. “That’s the day you lied to me.”

“Right,” said Sherlock. “I seem to manage to ruin the mood between us, don’t I?”

John took pity on him. “And I can attribute that to the fact that you’re still able to speak English. I’ll have to work on that.” He gave him a wry grin and tugged on his cock. Sherlock gasped and fell silent save for a few moans and sighs as John took his own cock out and held it to Sherlock’s.

“God in heaven,” sighed Sherlock. “Th-that’s amazing.”

John wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders as they stood there before the window and thrust himself up into his own fist against Sherlock’s shaft. “Have you ne-never?”

“No,” panted Sherlock. “Victor was never this… this…”

“Attentive?” asked John. “Caring? Considerate?” John got a perverse kick out of out-fucking the only other man Sherlock had admitted to being with. It felt like possession. It felt like winning.

“Take your pick,” said Sherlock and kissed him deeply. “Nor was he this salacious or creative.”

“Thank you,” said John, grinning. “I need to see you completely naked, you know. Is that alright?”

“Oh god, yes,” said Sherlock. He quickly pulled off his shirt as John pulled him into another slow deep kiss, sucking his tongue into his mouth as he pulled off. John left their cocks in favor of pushing down Sherlock’s trousers and taking hold of his arse, squeezing the muscle apart, massaging it, and sliding a finger down along his crack. “Christ, John,” he sighed into another kiss that made him dizzy.

John backed away from Sherlock, asking him to remove the rest of his clothes as he did the same. Soon both of them were gazing at each other, fully erect in the streaming sunlight of the window. John spread out a spare horse blanket over the loose hay and asked Sherlock to kneel. Sherlock hesitated.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

“Yes, John,” said Sherlock. It was a very unconvincing lie.

John stepped to him and held him. “What’s wrong?”

“I haven’t really done any of this in ages,” he said. “When we were trapped in that room in the manor it was all about rushing through, there was no forethought, no time to worry about what might happen. This time, however…”

“You’re scared,” said John softly.

“Well, I don’t see any lubricant here,” said Sherlock.

John smiled. “That’s not what I have in mind.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry: you’ll like what I have in mind.” Sherlock shot him another wary look. “Trust me, Sherlock. I’m not him.” Gently he guided him back to the blanket and positioned him with his head down on the blanket and his knees on the bales. He smoothed a hand along Sherlock’s spine, noting a small freckle here, a mole there, and the overall softness of his perfect skin. He gently kissed the base of his spine and felt Sherlock shiver. “Shhh, love,” he said. “It’s ok. Just relax.”

 _He’s a doctor_ , Sherlock told himself. _He wouldn’t hurt me. Not like Victor. He’s a good man. He’s a good man. He’s a good man._

John gently kissed over Sherlock’s arse, caressing the skin carefully. He felt Sherlock stiffen, saw the rapidity of the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were shut tightly. So John did the only thing he could do under the circumstances: he took his time.

It was true that they only had a few hours, but John acted as if time stood still. His hands were steady and sure, quelling the shudders of tension rippling through Sherlock’s body as slowly, gradually, he let his hard shell fall away and melt into the tender ministrations of the best lover and companion he had ever known.

Rimming wasn’t something John did often with Sholto. It wasn’t something he needed. He preferred John to kiss his face rather than his arsehole. But in those heated moments when they were fresh off-maneuvers and hadn’t seen each other for weeks, the passion took them and they investigated every part of each other, like animals sniffing and licking at their mates. It was bonding, it was ownership. This too was bonding and ownership, but in the most tender of ways. Sherlock’s breath was shaky, but he held still and waited for John to do whatever horrific thing he had in mind. _No, not horrific. This is John. John would never hurt. He’s a healer._

John kissed at the flesh of Sherlock’s buttock slowly, lingering over his heat, waiting for Sherlock to calm more and more. His touch remained temperate as the kisses became licks. He parted Sherlock’s cheeks and savored the low moan he was able to illicit from Sherlock. He felt him shift, his arms spreading, his back arching further, his head pressing deeper into the blanket-covered softness of the hay as he encouraged John to explore more and more with every touch. Eventually, John pushed his perfect pink tongue past the rings of muscle and Sherlock gasped at the sensation. “Ah! John!” His cock filled, grew heavy. “God, yes, John! Don’t stop!”

John unhurriedly kneaded Sherlock’s fleshy buttocks in rhythm with his tongue’s exit and entrance to his hole until Sherlock’s hips took up the undulation. John pulled away for a breath and as Sherlock whimpered at the loss, he grinned as the detective helplessly clutched at the blanket, fisting the material in his desperation. “Please, John. So good… please.”

“Shh…” he soothed. “You see? Gentle. Just you and I for the next two hours. We’ve got time.”

“Mmm,” agreed Sherlock. His eyes were closed a smile was on his face. “And the case is solved. And Lestrade will be getting here in a few hours as well. And you’re not pleasuring me right now, doctor.” He wiggled his hips slowly and John had to laugh.

“Alright, you whore,” John joked. “Give me that arse.”

Sherlock grunted as John ate his arse with fervor, tongue plunging and swirling, spreading heat to Sherlock’s groin and making his cock throb uncomfortably. “Need more,” rasped Sherlock, a quieter noise than he wanted to make. His panting had made his throat dry and he cleared it and spoke again: “More. John… your cock. Please.”

“We’ve no lube here, love,” said John.

Sherlock straightened himself and took John by the hand. “What are you doing?” asked John.

Sherlock peered carefully out the window to the commotion below. The carriage was gone and so were the men who were preparing it. Sherlock just caught them all as they followed the carriage down the road toward the main house. “Everyone’s gone to the wedding.” He turned to John with a wicked grin. “We are officially alone.”

John kissed him in the full light of the window, spun him to face outward, dropped to his knees and began rimming him all over again. Sherlock’s body was pressed up against the glass. John’s arms were looped between his legs and back up around his hips, necessitating Sherlock to spread his long limbs wide. He braced himself with a hand to either side of the window sash as John bored his tongue deep into Sherlock’s arsehole, humming happily as he performed his task. Sherlock nearly came all over the window glass from the thought of the display they were giving.

After a while, Sherlock was either going to burst apart at the seams or fuck himself on the handle-end of a pitchfork unless John got his cock inside of him. He never thought he would desire that sensation so badly in his life. He did experience carnal desire once before, when he and Victor were just starting out, but Victor soon became too aggressive for the sex to be anything but perfunctory and painful. This was another matter. In John’s hands, Sherlock’s body _sang_.

And right now, his body was screeching an aria begging to have a cock up his arse.  “John! Please fuck me. Please.” He looked back and down. Smiling blue eyes greeted him.

John kissed one cheek before standing. He stood with hands on hips, his head cocked, evaluating the mess he’d made of the unflappable Sherlock Holmes. Even after being bucked by Stamford, Sherlock had looked more put-together than he did now. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat, his cheeks were flushed as with a fever, he looked helpless, disheveled, debauched, and completely filthy. “Yeah,” said John as Sherlock peeled himself off of the glass, “you look like you’re ready for a proper fuck.”

“Please,” begged Sherlock.

John smirked slightly, an evil twinkle in his eye. He held up a finger. “But first: a bath.”

 

~080~

 

“I’m fully capable of bathing myself, John,” said Sherlock.

“I know that,” said John, testing the water with an elbow, “but you will need me to help you scrub your back. Despite what you may think, horse stench only goes so far with me.” He stood and gestured to the tub. “In you get.” It was one of three claw-footed tubs available in the stable hands’ quarters. There were a bank of sinks, toilets, and three shower stalls as well. The tubs were usually reserved for sore or injured hands who were injured on the job. Rarely was a hand found in the tubs unless something were wrong with him. Today wasn’t about that.

Sherlock tested the water with a foot. It was deliciously warm and he slid in and leaned back. John took up a scrub brush and soap and motioned for Sherlock to lean forward. The detective obliged and the heat of the water and the intensity of the clinical scrub John administered left his back a healthy pink color. “There now, let’s have the front,” said John.

“I can do that myself, doctor,” insisted Sherlock. He took the soap and scrub brush out of John’s hands and lathered himself up with efficiency. John stood in front of Sherlock, arms crossed, staring at him in silence. Sherlock was washing his neck before he noticed the look on John’s face. “What?” he asked.

“Do it slower,” said John.

Sherlock was about to repeat his question when it dawned on him: John was a bit of a voyeur. Who else would fuck a man in broad daylight against a humongous window? Sherlock smiled knowingly and smoothed one suds-covered hand down his neck, across his chest, and down his arm. He followed through to the other arm, up to his chest and let his fingers bump across his nipple before gliding it up to his neck. He splashed some water over his chest, cupping the liquid in his gigantic hands, and allowed it to course down his chest, pool in the recesses created by his collar and breast bones, until his skin shone clean and white.

Then he stood up. The water steamed around his calves as he proceeded to lather himself up from his stomach southward. He saw John shift as the arousal in his trousers became undeniable. Sherlock palmed himself and watched John bite his lip. “You can touch yourself too, you know,” said Sherlock.

“Filthy boy,” said John. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock smirked at him and nodded slowly. John smiled at that. “You seem comfortable with me watching you.”

“I do seem to be, yes,” said Sherlock. He looked down at his erection, dripping with soapy lather. “And I seem to be aroused by it as well.” He stared at John and rubbed his soapy hands over his buttocks. “I miss your tongue.”

“If you want it back, I’m afraid you have to wash all that off,” said John.

“I’d prefer your cock,” said Sherlock.

“I see,” said John.

“Tell me something John,” said Sherlock, his hands travelling everywhere over his frame from nipples to knees, “why aren’t you naked?”

John laughed suddenly, a joyous sound that echoed off the tiled walls. “That is a fair point, Sherlock. I really should be, shouldn’t I?” Sherlock couldn’t agree more. John quit his clothes with military efficiency but it was somehow decidedly erotic: the brusque businesslike manner in which he removed his shirt, trousers, even his shoes, held a restrained power that made Sherlock’s breath catch. The whole of John radiated the words: _soldier, warrior, weapon_ and if his cock was hard before, it was throbbing by the time John joined him in the soapy wet.

“Here,” said John and took up a flannel. “Let me clean you off.” He dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out over Sherlock’s chest, watching as streams and rivulets of water cleared away and left shining alabaster skin in its wake. “Now that’s lovely,” John murmured.

“Do I smell better?” asked Sherlock as he watched John’s hungry expression with a bemused grin. It felt good to be desired like this and not in a predator/prey kind of way. John’s playful devilishness had brought out his own and it was a pleasant surprise.

“You do,” said John, tracing his nose up the side of Sherlock’s neck. “You smell like heaven.”

“You, however, do not,” stated Sherlock flatly. “You smell like earth and sweat and the outdoors.”

“Then I guess you’d better get busy,” said John, handing him the flannel.

Sherlock’s touch was without finesse at first, almost clumsy and childlike, until John took his hand and stilled it. Sherlock hadn’t realized that he was nervous until that moment. “Shh,” soothed John, “like this.” And he moved Sherlock’s hand over his body in long caresses. “Take it wherever you wish, Sherlock. We’re in no great hurry.”

Sherlock decided to treat John’s body like a crime scene. His eyes became scintillate in the late afternoon light as he rang out the flannel just enough not to drip into John’s eyes. He tilted John’s chin up with a finger and moved the cloth over his face carefully, cleaning away the dirt and grime from the hayloft. He took care with each motion not to be too rough, inspecting behind John’s ears, along his scalp, turning him around to inspect the nape of his neck, turning him again to study his suprasternal notch and clavicles. He paid especial attention to John’s scar, front and back, noting the spider spread of the keloid tissue and the rise of it from the surface of his skin.

Nipples were next and Sherlock knelt in the tub water, completely oblivious to the shape his spine took and the angle at which John could see it. He also didn’t seem to notice John’s more-than-prominent erection as he moved from pectoralis to abdomen, from trapezius and rhomboid to quadratus lumborum and latissimus dorsi. When he got to the gleuteal muscles, he pushed John over gently so as to inspect and bathe not just the musculature, but the natal cleft in between, pausing over the anus to gently circle it and watch in fascination as John hummed low and circled his hips, pressing back just enough to swallow the flannel covering Sherlock’s finger to the first knuckle. “Oh,” sighed Sherlock. “You mean you don’t mind-“ He cut himself off, reminding himself that this was not Victor, that he was free to explore and experiment and that John wouldn’t stop him unless he felt it necessary. He smiled at that thought and kissed John’s pucker, not minding the soapy wet one bit.

He guided the flannel over John’s scrotum from the back and gently squeezed against each testicle in turn, feeling the play of it inside the sac. His thighs and calves were tenderly washed before Sherlock turned him around to inspect the quality and firmness of his corpus spongiosum. It stood out from his body like the proud soldier it was attached to and it was all John could do not to come unglued when Sherlock licked tentatively at the precum that beaded at its tip. He watched, mouth agape, as Sherlock rolled it around his mouth as though trying to determine the nature of it. Sherlock licked again – the barest of warm wet touches to the tip of his aching cock – and John let out a choked gasp. “Fuck, Sherlock,” he panted. “Either suck it or wash it or something, will you? I’m dying here.”

Sherlock gazed at John’s face as though he had just walked in the room. He then regarded the cock that stood in pointing accusation at him. He gave a small shrug and swallowed him down, pulling off slowly. “Oh!” John cried. “Oh do it again. Please!” Sherlock obliged him and let him have several long lascivious sucks before he noticed John’s knees and began to clean them. John looked down and watched him in shock. “Um, Sherlock?” he said tentatively. “Could you suck me off _and_ wash my legs, you know, at the same time?”

“Hmm?” asked Sherlock, who was concentrated on his task. “Oh, of course, doctor.” He fed himself John’s cock once more and moved the flannel everywhere he could reach that wouldn’t make him swallow soapy water. By the time he was done, John’s cock was throbbing and rock hard. Sherlock stood with a satisfied grin on his face.

John placed his arms up on Sherlock’s shoulders and the detective bent over toward his face. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He kissed him briefly. “I just thank fuck we’ve all the time in the world, because I’m so fucking hard I could burst.” John’s second kiss was feather-light and searing, sparking heat and want inside of Sherlock instantly. He felt their cocks brush for the first time and Sherlock moved with instinct to bend his knees slightly and capture both of them inside the flannel.

“Oh god, Sherlock,” gasped John as Sherlock pleasured them both. Sherlock could hardly catch his breath either as he stroked, his strong long fingers making easy work of the task. Soon Sherlock was in as bad a state as his lover.

“J-John,” he stuttered. “C-could we move this to the bedroom?”

“I think that would be an excellent idea,” said John.

 

~080~

 

It was a matter of moments for them to streak naked down the corridor clutching their clothing to cover what remained of their modesty and trying not to giggle like children as they hurried along. John secured the door behind them and turned to see the stunning display of a naked, wet Sherlock standing in the light from the window. He was using a towel to dry his hair (it had gotten damp at the back of his neck) and the curls shook and tousled magnificently. John had to remind himself to breathe.

He was across the small room in three long strides and cupped Sherlock’s face for a sudden kiss. “Where the fuck have you been all my life, Sherlock Holmes?” He had never been so drawn to someone before, never felt the need to exist with them, to share lives with them. He found Sherlock utterly fascinating the way a child finds a soap bubble floating in the sunshine fascinating. He watched a slow sweet smile spread across Sherlock’s face and smiled back. He kissed him again.

“London, primarily, I suppose,” said Sherlock.

“Shut up and kiss me, you git,” said John and he locked them in an embrace, lip to lip, chest to chest, skin to skin.

This time it was the doctor’s turn to inspect Sherlock. As a specimen he was an alabaster god, if a bit thin. His nutritional intake was probably not ideal but John was certain that with the proper encouragement, Sherlock would be alright. His eyes were bright and clear, his skin soft and supple to the touch, indicating proper hydration at least. He mused that tea was most likely his source of liquids as he showed no outward signs of alcohol abuse.

His spine was straight with appropriate curvature – if a little more lordosis in the lumbar than was entirely decent – but no sign of scoliosis. The muscle tone in his gluteus was impressive… and distracting. John cleared his throat and continued: excellent posture overall, a striking profile in the face, if a bit weak-chinned. No sign of any disease or malady with the skin surface on the upper torso and back, but a chemical burn here and there on the forearms and hands… “Science experiments gone awry,” explained Sherlock. Pads of the fingertips of the left hand indicate the steady study of a musical instrument… “Violin,” Sherlock supplied with a grin.

Sherlock’s manhood was of average length and girth, uncircumcised, and his testes… “Did you want me to turn my head and cough, doctor?” Well, they seemed normal. John studied his reaction when his hand left his testicles and glided up the underside of his cock. He noticed pupilary dilation, a catch of the respiration, a filling of the capillaries in the cheeks of the face as well as the corpus spongiosum, the foreskin pulling back to reveal the ruby head of his penis as blood filled the tissue.

“You have lovely reflexes, Sherlock,” murmured John as he nibbled at his neck and continued feather-light touches of his shaft and head.

Sherlock swallowed hard before responding: “Thank you, doctor.”

John kissed him slowly before asking. “Did you want to bottom or top?”

“I-I’ve never… um. Bottom, I suppose,” said Sherlock. “I’ve not um…”

“Victor always took you, you never took him,” said John, nodding with understanding. “It’s alright, Sherlock. We’ve got time. All I want to do right now is watch you come. Is that alright?” He took up both of their cocks in his hand and pulled them together. He had to get on tip-toe to do it adequately so that their full lengths touched each other’s, but the sensation was worth the strain in his calves. “God damn it,” moaned John, “I really do want to watch you come.”

“Did you want to watch me masturbate?” asked Sherlock. His face was even more flushed than before and he found himself wanting to touch John everywhere at once; his hands wouldn’t keep still.

“N-no,” said John. “Perhaps later? No… I want to watch you-“

“Come, yes,” said Sherlock. “I understand that, John. I-It’s just that… I don’t know how you would if you’re behind me or I’m in front of you. Unless I turn my head I suppose. I-“

John dropped his hand from their cocks and stepped back to look at Sherlock. “You mean he’s taken you and only from one position?” Sherlock’s blush was from embarrassment this time. John grimaced. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry.” He held him to his body for a long moment before explaining to him that there was another way.

 

~080~

 

The feeling of being penetrated by John was so different. He had said they had time. What he had meant was that John was going to _take his time_ \- which was an entirely different set of input values. He had never taken into account the benefits of adequate lubrication _and_ preparation before and he felt a bit stupid that he should have thought of it sooner. But if truth was told, any time Victor didn’t want to have sex, Sherlock was relieved. He only put up with him because he had to find a way to be normal – even if homosexuality in itself wasn’t the most common of sexual preferences. He wanted to fit in so badly at uni that he was willing to put up with a clearly inconsiderate, selfish, and quite frankly inadequate lover as Victor Trevor. John was shaming him on all fronts and Sherlock was delirious with bliss.

Like a flower in the first rays of sunlight, Sherlock opened up slowly at first once they were in bed. With every caress and kiss John gave him, he gave in kind, always making his kisses last just a few seconds longer that John’s in an odd game of one-up-man-ship. He wished to convey to him that not only was he interested in what he was doing to his body (his testicles, his cock, his anus – Christ, his anus!), he was also needing to convey to John that he trusted him implicitly. As their next kiss lingered even longer, John penetrated him with a finger, patient, waiting for the right moment to move again.

Sherlock’s body responded to John like a finely tuned Stradivarius in the hands of a master. Tones and notes were coaxed out of him, a bend of strings there, vibrato… until his whole being sang and undulated and begged for more.

And then, John was on top of him, kissing him, entering him.

He waited again. John was so very patient. Here was the soldier. The doctor was in the care he took; the soldier was the patience he used to administer the care. Sherlock’s eyes were opened to the reality of his past abuse. John’s tenderness was how it should have been. _How could I have been so blind? Why didn’t I know any better? Why didn’t I ask more questions?_

And then he remembered: he did. And Victor simply didn’t have time. The memory was swept away when John located his prostate. A white light lit up behind his clenched eyelids and he cried out, only faintly hearing as John asked him: “It’s good, isn’t it?” But Sherlock was past the point of being able to answer. It was all he could do to let his massive intellect process the chemicals and input they were receiving at this stage. Breathing properly was a struggle.

Finally, he felt himself relax into it, John tempering his stroke, rhythmically moving along the gland just enough; Sherlock’s body began to radiate pulsating waves of heat and ecstasy with his every heartbeat. Lightning sparked down his legs as nerve endings went haywire, his testicles began to tighten and he moved in the thrall of some great wave of bliss. He felt John’s heat above him and just before he came, he pried his eyes open and stared up into the face of the one man in all this world who mattered.

The eye contact didn’t last long as Sherlock reflexively arched his back and his eyes closed, the passion overtaking the duty to John’s request. He couldn’t help it. And after he came down, John was finishing inside of him, thrusting away, firmly but gently and Sherlock watched him come with the fascination of a child.

“So this is what it was supposed to be,” said Sherlock.

John hummed his assent from beside him. They had extricated themselves from each other and were laying, filthy, sweaty, and satisfied, side-by-side in Sherlock’s single bed. John was three-quarters of the way on his stomach, eyes closed, sleep threatening to take hold of them both. “Thank you, John,” said Sherlock. John smiled a ‘you’re welcome’ at him, too caught up in his own afterglow.

“You were right, by the way,” said Sherlock.

“Hmm?”

“I was afraid of Victor,” he said. “I was afraid of the whole ruddy clan.”

John opened one eye. “And you’re not anymore?”

“Not in the least,” said Sherlock. He looked sharply at John, all trace of fatigue vanished. “Let’s burn both of them.”

John lifted his head up at that. “Do we have enough on them to get them both?”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh of course we do,” said Sherlock. He cocked his head. “Maybe not both for the robbery, but…”

“But what?” asked John. He was wide awake now, his blood thrumming through his veins at this mere scent of adventure.

“How do you feel about crashing a wedding?”

 

~080~

 

“Well that was an unmitigated disaster,” said John. His face wore a grin – the cat that ate the cream. He licked at the corner of his mouth where his lip was cut. It wasn’t bad, he just got clipped, but he managed to chin the hell out of Thomas in exchange. The man had gone down like a sack of potatoes.

The bride was understandably distraught by the time the authorities arrived to separate the wheat from the chaff. Lestrade was running an annoyed hand through his hair so often, John thought he was going to encourage male-pattern baldness. He had quite the mess to clean up, but thankfully all the evidence was there to put away the baddies and limit the scandal to the thief – Thomas being the perpetrator – and away from the family itself. Of course, it hadn’t helped the family that Sherlock had announced their arrival in the church with a loud command: “STOP THIS WEDDING! THE GROOM IS ONLY MARRYING THE BRIDE SO HE CAN CONTINUE TO SLEEP WITH HER BROTHER.”

Everyone in attendance was aghast as he proceeded to tear apart the almost-wedded couple and destroy their wedded bliss. He had given the most scathing speech John had ever heard and when he had gotten to the part of how Thomas was in love with Victor – “And you shouldn’t be, dear fellow, as he’s an emotional parasite and a terrible lover. I would know.” – Thomas threw himself at Sherlock. Fortunately, John was standing right there to grab him away and turn him back toward him. That was when Thomas tried for Ineffective Pugilist of the Year and when John had to lay him out cold.

Victor had objected, stating that there was no proof, but Sherlock insisted that  Lestrade's men will find plenty of bodily fluids in Thomas’ chambers to give everyone concerned enough reason to turn on him. The squabbling that ensued made everyone chitter with excited gossip, caused a flower girl to cry, and the bride began tearing apart the flowers on the altar just to have something to throw at Victor and the unconscious Thomas. John took the giant flower vase from her hands before she could smash it over Thomas’ head.

And that’s when the police came in. It was a terrible state of affairs but four hours and sixty eye-witness accounts later (along with two hundred forty-two more to go, thankyouverymuch) and Greg was holding up a bag containing more jewels than he could afford in sixteen lifetimes. He gave a low whistle and John said, “He stole them thinking that Victor would somehow be willing to sneak away with him.”

They looked over to where Thomas was sitting in the back of one of the ambulances that had arrived shortly after the police. One had already left with the bride’s grandmother in the back mumbling something about arranged marriages and how no one should marry beneath their station in life. It made life simple – no surprises. John had rolled his eyes.

He looked for Sherlock. He stood on the other side of the drive that overlooked the sea and was speaking to Victor Trevor. Police flanked him on both sides and John couldn’t tell what was being said, but Sherlock’s body language spoke volumes for his meaning. He was standing tall, his long lean sideline profile a masterpiece of curves, arms at his sides, a small smile on his lips. The servant’s livery they had stolen had sufficed to cover John’s nakedness, but Sherlock looked like his was bespoke. He saw Sherlock raise a hand to wave goodbye playfully to Victor who was dragged off to sit in the back of a waiting police vehicle.

“He knew Thomas was stealing and never reported it,” said Lestrade. “He’ll do time for aiding and abetting a criminal.”

“I find that so satisfying, Detective Inspector,” said John. “I know Sherlock will be happy about that.”

Lestrade looked John over. “You really get along with him, don’t you?”

John turned to regard the policeman. “Yeah, we do. It’s surprising, isn’t it?”

He chuckled knowingly. “Maybe the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” said Lestrade, clapping a hand over John’s shoulder.

“And more,” said John as he watched that long lean figure turn toward him and smile.


End file.
